Riding Shotgun in the Sky
by roqueclasique
Summary: Hero complex shmero complex, Sam can babble as much psych bullshit as he wants, but Dean knows that his vacation is someone else’s nightmare. So forgive him if it’s a little hard to relax, sometimes. PART EIGHT OF THE DRIVE 'VERSE.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: This is in the Drive 'verse, as are all of my stories, but to read it alone, hopefully all you need to know is: Dean has a permanently fucked-up leg.

"Butterfly wings," Dean says in disbelief, leaning on his cane to get a closer look. "This whole fuckin' picture's made out of butterfly wings."

Sam comes to stand behind him, examines the riverside scene, framed behind a thick piece of glass and hung above the couch of the small living room. At first glance the picture looks as if it's been pieced together out of thin slices of mother-of-pearl, or iridescent paper, but as he peers closer, he realizes that Dean's right: the whole thing is a collage of multi-colored butterfly wings.

"Woah," he says.

"Creepy," Dean says. "That's what that is."

"You afraid of butterflies, man?" Sam teases as he steps back, but he has to admit, it is just a little uncanny.

"Who'd you say lives here, again?" Dean asks, turning away to continue his exploration of the apartment.

"Gene and Marilynn Finklestein," Sam says. "And they're on a senior's cruise."

"They must really need the cash, to sublet this apartment for just a week."

"Guess so. Maybe to pay for their cruise."

Dean shakes his head, moves to check out the bathroom, and Sam trails behind, adjusting his sling to take some pressure off his good shoulder. He'd found this place on Craigslist, couldn't believe his luck – a cheap, fully furnished two-bedroom apartment for seven nights, in a decent location in Ft. Worth, Texas, with a _pool_ in the middle of the compound. Pure fuckin' luck, because a pool had been Dean's stipulation for seven days in one place.

"If we're gonna be on vacation, we're gonna do it right," Dean had said firmly. "And that means a pool."

But the pool isn't even the best part. The best part, Sam thinks, is —

"Dude," Dean says in disbelief as he flicks on the bathroom light. "No way."

"Way," Sam says with a satisfied smile. "Gene broke his hip a few years ago and now it's all fucked-up, so, voila."

Dean stares at the metal grab-bars running the walls of the room, then squints at the tub. "Is that—"

"A whirlpool tub," Sam says. "Kinda like a Jacuzzi. Supposed to be good for your circulation and stuff."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "You're not playing around with this vacation shit, huh?"

"Nope," Sam says, grinning, knowing that's about as close to a _thanks _as he's gonna get.

Dean's silent for a moment, then says, "You do realize that there have been naked old people in that thing, right?"

"We'll clean it out, if it makes you feel better," Sam says. "It'll be good for your hip. That's why Gene had it installed."

"Awesome," Dean groans. "Just put me in assisted living now, why don't you?"

Sam whacks him on the arm. "Quit whining and appreciate the whirlpool tub. Do you know how long I had to talk to those people, to prove we were worthy of the apartment? So long that I know the names, ages, and color preferences of all seven of their grandchildren."

Dean smiles. "You're so sweet with the elderly, Sammy."

"I handle you okay, don't I?"

"Fuck you," Dean grumbles, following him out of the bathroom. "Like I'm not already embarrassed about sharing ailments with a ninety year old."

"He's eighty three, dude. As of last Tuesday."

"Jesus, they really did talk at you, huh?"

"Let's just unpack."

Sam heads over to the salmon-pink couch where they'd unceremoniously dumped their luggage, and hefts one of the duffles in his good hand while Dean drapes himself with the other two.

"You can take that room," Sam says, gesturing to the door on the left, right off the living room. "It's got a little balcony where you can smoke."

"Hey," Dean says, surprised. "Thanks."

Sam shrugs. "I don't want you stinking up the rest of the apartment."

Dean considers flipping him off, but decides against it, because, damn, Sam really did do a good job finding this place. He would never admit it out loud, but it's a hell of a lot harder to take a shower in a bathroom without handicapped facilitates. Not to mention take a piss.

Dean's room is small, with a double bed that takes up most of the space – must be the Finkelsteins' bedroom, and he grimaces as he has to block out the image of naked old people once again. There's a chair by the door to the balcony, a sturdy wooden dresser with a hairbrush and some photographs of kids on top, and a big closet full of the Finkelsteins' clothes. The place smells vaguely of baby powder and cologne, and Dean can't help but feel a little weirded out that he's living in someone else's home for a week – but he guesses it's better than a motel.

He drops the duffles on the bed, heads over to check out the balcony. It's tiny, just big enough for a dilapidated blue chaise lounge and a few unhealthy-looking potted plants. The apartment is five stories up and Dean, looking over the balcony, has to fight the vertigo that always comes to him with heights. He swallows, tries to enjoy the view of the bustling street below, but can't shake the clenched, panicky feeling in his stomach, even worse now than it was before his accident. He's always been afraid of heights, of flying – damn near had a heart attack that time he and Sam had to go up in a plane to banish a demon, but that was different; he'd had a mission. It's worse when he's just standing here, doing nothing, waiting for the balcony to give way and crash down onto the street.

"Hey," Sam says, startling him, and Dean has to put out a hand to grip the railing.

"Jesus," he grouses. "Give a guy a little warning."

"Sorry. Nice room, though, huh?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "It is pretty nice. How's yours?"

"Bed's a little short," Sam says with a shrug. "I think it's the room they use when their grandkids come visit. But it's cute. Wanna see?"

"Gimme a minute," Dean says, flashes Sam the pack of cigarettes in his palm and lowers himself carefully down onto the chaise lounge, trying to quell the beat of fear in his belly.

He props his cane up and pats his pockets for his lighter.

"We gotta get you some new crutches," Sam says, eyeing the cane.

Dean wants to protest, but in the few weeks before a poltergeist had destroyed his crutches, he'd come to appreciate them. They serve different functions than the cane, and it's nice to have the option, depending on how good his leg is and what he's planning to do on a given day.

"Maybe I'll find a clinic tomorrow," Dean says grudgingly, bumps a cigarette from his pack. "Gotta refill one of my prescriptions, anyway."

"I hear the bus system's pretty good," Sam says. "That way we don't have to worry about parking."

"Cool." Dean lights his cigarette, exhales into the warm Texas air. It's around seven o'clock, and the sky is dim, a hazy city-grey with a thin line of pink around the edges, vestiges of the setting sun.

It's been a while since they've been in a city. Dean kind of equates vacation with country, and he put up a half-hearted fuss when Sam insisted on Ft. Worth. He's pretty sure Sam put his foot down because he thinks Dean has less of a chance of going stir-crazy in a city – and he may be half-right. But it's not so much location that gives Dean that deep itch to _move _– it's the constant, nagging feeling that there's something he's supposed to be doing, someone who's dying because he's not there. Hero complex shmero complex, Sam can babble as much psych bullshit as he wants, but Dean knows that his vacation is someone else's nightmare. So forgive him if it's a little hard to relax, sometimes.

"You want pizza?" Sam asks, turning to go back inside. "We could order a pizza."

"Sure," Dean says, though he's not hungry. But he has been trying harder to eat more, and he feels like maybe his appetite's improving a little – he doesn't know if it's a placebo effect, or if the antidepressants are kicking in, but it hasn't been so difficult, recently, to finish a sandwich or an order of mozzarella sticks when Sam shoves them at him.

And he hasn't, you know, needed to use his sleeve as an impromptu tissue quite so often.

In the three days it took them to drive from Kansas to Texas, it had only been that one time, in a gas station a couple miles out from the border of Kansas. Some hassled father holding a toddler had bumped into him too hard and he'd stumbled on his bad leg, already stiff and sore from the hours of driving, and he'd just gone _down_, taken a rack of service-station pastries with him. Sam, thank god, had missed it, had been outside getting gas, but that meant Dean had had to let the guilt-stricken father help him up while his kid looked on, wide-eyed and curious.

Dean had grinned like a maniac, made an impossibly lame crack about gas prices being so high they knocked you over, but he couldn't fool the guy, much less himself. He didn't know which was worse, the fireworks of pain that shot behind his eyes, the embarrassment the man clearly felt at knocking over a dude with a cane, or the apple-pie filling all over the ass of his jeans. As soon as he was upright and more or less steady, Dean had slunk off to the bathroom, spent a few minutes taking deep, shaky breaths and grinding his nails into his palm so hard he bled. But it was just that once. Which, pathetically, is progress in Dean's current book.

He finishes his cigarette, pulls himself to his feet, tries not to look over the edge of the balcony as he grabs his cane and maneuvers himself back inside.

Sam's sitting on the couch, flipping through a copy of _Good Housekeeping _and drinking a beer. "Pizza'll be here soon," he says, and Dean makes his way over to the armchair, sinks down with a little "Oof" that has Sam glancing towards him.

"You okay? Take your meds?"

"I'm good," Dean says, watches Sam's big hands turn the page of the magazine. "You seriously reading that shit?"

"Looking for recipes," Sam says defiantly. "I was thinking I might cook something tomorrow night."

Dean stares at him. "You. Cook."

"Yeah, dude, me, cook. I didn't just learn school stuff while I was at Stanford, you know. I mean, we had a kitchen. And Jess sure wasn't about to do all the cooking."

"You let _me _do all the cooking, growing up."

"You liked it."

Dean shakes his head in disbelief. "Is this how our vacation's gonna go? You, turning all housewife on me?"

"Well, I was thinking we could go to a play or something," Sam says, ignores Dean's groan. "Check out some museums."

"Or how about the oh-per-ah?" Dean asks, giving his best go at a British accent.

"We could go to a bar tonight," Sam continues, undaunted. "There's kind of a cool-looking one just down the street."

"Maybe," Dean hedges.

"Oh, hey, you want one of these?" Sam asks, hefts his beer, and Dean hesitates.

Lately he's been going easy, has found that the stronger painkillers he's on don't mix so well with alcohol, make him slurred and uncoordinated after just a couple drinks – but – maybe if he drinks more, Sam will drink less.

"Yeah, thanks."

Twisted logic, but hey, if he's having a beer, that's one less for Sam, right? Sam heads into the kitchen and Dean hears the creak of the fridge, the clink of bottles. A sound that's too familiar, lately.

He's been thinking that maybe he should say something, but he just doesn't really know how to come out and say _Sam, I think you're drinking too much _without sounding like a stiff-laced hypocrite. Because god knows, Sam's gotten on his case for drinking before and Dean's always snapped at him to shut the fuck up. Dean knows he's had his moments with alcohol – scary moments where he's looked up and realized it'd been a good week since he'd been completely sober – and he knows his father's had those moments, too. But Sam? Not so much. 'Til now, anyway.

And it's really not like he's getting falling-down drunk, has been staying securely on this side of plastered. A few beers when they have lunch, a couple swigs of whiskey in the car, casual, like it's no thing, then beer with dinner, whiskey after. Slow — but constant.

The only almost-bad night had been when their father had called, as promised, to tell them that he was in Idaho checking out reports of dying greenhouse plants.

"Greenhouse plants," Sam had snorted. "How the fuck are we supposed to know if he's telling the truth?"

"Gotta trust him," Dean had said, and Sam had tightened his lips, reached for the whiskey like it was a reflex. He hadn't gotten belligerent or anything, but he had passed out on his bed fully clothed, looked a little green around the gills the next day.

When Dean had tried to mention it, an offhand, vaguely reproachful, "Think you finished that whole bottle by yourself, dude," Sam had just laughed and agreed. And it's hard to – to _argue_ for anything when Sam's not even on the defensive. He's not trying to hide anything, so Dean doesn't really know how to address the problem. Or if it's even a problem.

"Hey," Sam says, waggling the beer under Dean's nose, snickers as Dean starts.

"Thanks." The first sip reveals that it's still kind of warm from being in the car, hasn't had time to refrigerate. He makes a face.

"I—" Sam begins, but just then the doorbell rings.

"That was quick," Dean says.

"Good," Sam says, "I'm starving," and heads over to open the door.

Dean settles a hand on his knee, tries to knead away some of the muscle tension that's threatening to turn into a cramp if he's not careful, but whips his head around when he hears a posh old-woman's voice with a hint of Texas twang saying, "Hello, dear, you must be Sam Ruger."

All Dean can see is his brother's broad back, blocking the person on the other side.

"Uh, yeah," Sam says. "That's me. And you are…?"

"I'm Mrs. Henly from down the hall, honey. You can call me Marcella. I'm a friend of Gene and Marilynn. They told me you were coming, and I thought I'd stop by and make my introductions, perhaps explain a little bit about how things work around here."

"Work?" Sam says. "Uh, sure, yeah. Would you like to come in?"

"Thank you," she says, and Sam steps back to reveal a petite old woman in a tweed pantsuit. She's got a neat head of curled white hair and an elegant silk scarf knotted around her neck, and looks a bit as if she's stepped off the pages of _Better Homes and Gardens._

"Oh," she says, noticing Dean. "Hello, sweetheart. You must be Sam's poor brother. Dean, isn't it?"

Dean doesn't know exactly what he's done to merit the _poor, _since Sam couldn't have made _that _bad of an impression in such a short span of time, but he nods and gives her the smile he reserves for older women, starts to struggle to his feet.

"Oh, no, no," she says, bustling forward and extending one soft, veined hand. "Don't get up. Sam's told us all about your horrible car accident."

"He has, has he?" Dean asks, sinking back in the chair to shake her hand as Sam grimaces behind her.

"Yes, it must be awful for you."

"It's not so bad," Dean says guardedly.

"And you, Sam," she says, turning to him dramatically. "What's happened to your arm?"

"Nothing serious," Sam says. "Fell down a couple steps. Why don't you have a seat, Mrs. Henly. Would you like, ah, some water? There might be tea or something in the cupboards, we haven't checked."

"I told you, it's Marcella. And I'll take one of those, if you don't mind," Marcella says, gesturing to his beer, pooling condensation on the glass coffee table. "Old people drink too, you know."

Dean raises an eyebrow and Sam laughs as he heads into the kitchen, comes out with a beer for Marcella and a fresh one for himself.

The woman takes a healthy swig, leans back into the couch cushions as Sam settles in beside her.

"This is a lovely place to live," she says, with an air of didacticism. "So we don't want any loud parties, or drugs."

"No, of course not," Sam says, looking taken aback. "Marilynn explained the rules to me, and Dean and I don't know anyone in this city, anyway."

"You may have guests, of course," Marcella continues. "Female or male, we don't judge." She leverages a knowing look at them and chortles as they redden. "The pool is open from eight to eight, every day," she says. "There's no lifeguard, so you must sign a waver with the super before you use it. His name is Mike and he's a doll. He's on the ground floor, one-oh-one, always there from eight to ten each morning."

"Ah," Sam says. "Okay. Good to know."

"Don't bring any animals into the place."

"We won't."

"Don't smoke anywhere in the building."

"No, ma'am."

"You smell like a smoker," Marcella says, wheeling on Dean.

"Uh—"

"Marilynn has terrible asthma, so don't go stinking up her linens or anything, all right?"

"I will try my best," Dean promises.

"And that's all we ask of you," Marcella says, and dimples, her eyes crinkling. She must have been good-looking as a young woman, Dean realizes. "You boys come get me if you have any questions, you hear? Or if you'd like to chat, about anything. I'm in five-oh-three and I have lots of experience talking to young folks. I've got plenty of grandkids." A strange look passes across her face suddenly, a shadow of sadness that has Dean wondering, but then it's gone.

"Thank you very much," Sam says.

"You seem like good boys," she says. "And you, poor dear," she says, addressing Dean, "I had gum surgery a few months ago, and still have half a bottle of Vicodin, should you need it."

Dean laughs, can't help himself. "I'm all set with the painkillers, but I appreciate it."

She smiles, looks him up and down. "And you're so good-looking, too," she says. "What a pity."

Dean blinks, isn't really sure what to say to that, but knows he's a little offended.

"What do your parents do?" she asks, and seems ready to have a good, long, life-story session, but luckily, the doorbell rings.

"I'll get it," Dean says, hoists himself to his feet, because he really doesn't want to sit there being _poor dear_'ed for a moment longer.

It's the pizza guy, and Dean gives him a smile, gestures towards the living room. "You can put those on the table over there," he says, and follows the kid inside. He leans up against the wall to dig his wallet out of his back pocket, and Marcella stands.

"I'll let you boys eat in peace," she says. "But I do hope you come see me in five-oh-three, so we can get to know one another properly. I have boxes and boxes of Girl Scout cookies, thanks to my darling Susie. She's nine. Just adorable."

Sam smiles noncommittally, walks her to the door. "Thanks again for coming over."

"No, please. It was my pleasure."

Dean pays the pizza guy and lowers himself back down into the armchair while Sam heads to the kitchen to rustle up some plates.

"Hey," Dean calls after him. "What the hell did you tell her about me?"

"I didn't tell _her _anything," Sam says, coming back in. "I told the Finklestein's that you were injured in a car accident. That's all I said."

"Well, tell me what story you're gonna use before you use it," Dean grumbles. "What happened to the fireman thing?"

"I forgot. Sorry. How was I supposed to know they'd tell the neighbors?" He shakes his head, opens one of the boxes. "You want cheese, or pepperoni?"

"I'm gonna have a cigarette first," Dean says, and pushes himself out of the chair. Up-down up-down. His hip is gonna bitch at him later.

"Hey," Sam says. "One piece. Just eat one piece now."

"Dude, I really need a smoke."

"You need to _eat._"

"I'm _gonna_ eat," Dean says. "After I smoke."

"Whatever." Sam gives up, watches Dean limp out of the room. He looks at the pizza, then at his beer, finishes it in a long gulp and goes to get another one. He needs to get a buzz going, some kind of buffer between him and the constant worry.

He's getting better at opening bottles one-handed, barely even fumbles this time, but he still can't wait to get this fucking sling off. Dean had convinced him to see a doctor, who had advised two weeks with the sling and then a few weeks of exercises, which is more than he's ever done for a dislocated shoulder; but then, he's never dislocated his shoulder twice in as many weeks. It doesn't hurt unless he moves it around too much, but it's irritating, only having one working arm.

He'd be bitching about it, except for the fact that Dean's a lot worse off than he is. Though knowing that doesn't make it any easier to pop a bottle cap.

Dean comes back into the living room when Sam's halfway through his second slice of pizza, eases himself onto the couch next to his brother and grabs a slice of pepperoni under Sam's approving gaze.

"I'm gonna make fettuccini alfredo tomorrow night," Sam announces around a mouthful of crust. "So we should go grocery shopping in the morning."

"_You _can go shopping. I'm goin' to the pool."

"We can do both."

"_You _can do both."

"Fine," Sam says. "You can't have any fettuccini."

"Go get me another beer."

"You gonna come shopping with me?"

"Go get me another beer."

Sam rolls his eyes, but climbs to his feet. "You're a baby, you know that?"

Dean shows Sam a chewed-up mouthful of cheese as an answer.

After they eat, Sam puts away the leftovers and does the dishes while Dean retreats into his room to do his physical therapy exercises, now that his hip's not hurting too much to get them done. His – whatever the hell that was called – Bursitis? – seems to have cleared up, god know _how. _He flouted the doctor's orders of bed rest, got thrown into a few cabinets in Kansas, and has spent two days behind the wheel, since Sam can't drive with his arm strapped to his freakin' chest. But nevertheless, Dean's been moving a little easier, doesn't need as much help getting in and out of the car, or up the stairs, and Sam's glad _something's_ finally going right.

Dean comes out after a half-hour, forehead a little damp, Actiq stick tucked into his cheek. Sam's getting used to seeing Dean suck on the morphine-like painkiller, but it still looks bizarre to him, painkillers delivered in lollipop form. Seems like it'd be dangerous to have around little kids.

"You feelin' up for a bar?" Sam asks, lounging against the counter as Dean winces down onto the wooden chair by the kitchen table. Sam's had five beers, can feel the tension in his belly start to uncurl. He's ready to switch to something a little stronger, because hey, they're on vacation, right?

"Why not," Dean says, twirls the Actiq in his mouth. "Wait 'til this baby kicks in. Then we can go."

"You want another beer?" Sam asks, and Dean shakes his head.

"Nah. I'll get one there."

Sam shrugs, cracks one for himself, notices how Dean's eyes track his movements, narrow just a little.

"What?" he asks, trying not to sound defensive, because he doesn't need to defend himself against anything, here.

Dean shrugs. "Nothin'. Just…"

"What?"

"Just, go easy, dude," Dean says. "I don't wanna have to drag you home."

"Hey, I'm not the one who mispronounces _Winchester _after three beers."

"That's insensitive. I'm on heavy sedatives."

Sam just raises his eyebrows and tips his bottle.

Neither of them bother changing, but Dean jams his gun into the back of his jeans, untucks his t-shirt to fall over it. Opens his eyes wide at Sam's pained expression.

"Dude," he says. "I'm not walkin' out there naked."

"You're gonna get us arrested."

"This is Texas, man. Texas is where it's _at _when it comes to guns."

"Yeah, well. You were excited to see armadillos, too."

Dean glowers. "Shut the fuck up, man." The only armadillo they'd seen had been crushed and rotting on the side of the road, and Dean's horrified face had sent Sam howling into gales of laughter, even as he felt bad for the mangled little guy.

"Sorry," Sam says, whacks him on the shoulder. "Let's go."

The elevator is rickety, with old-fashioned latticed metal folding doors, and it jolts and beeps with every floor. Dean's got one hand in a death grip on his cane, and the other palming the mirrored wall behind him. Sam can't help but grin a little as his brother swallows with an audible click of relief when they land on the first floor and the doors slide open.

Dean's cane echoes loudly across the tiled floor of the lobby, and the doorman grunts his way out of a nap as they pass, gives them a bleary nod and settles back down in his chair.

It's dark and warm outside, and Sam is surprised for a moment by the amount of people on the street, by the lights and the cars and the noise. They usually stay out of major cities, and it feels strange to be in the center of one, where they can blend in without even trying.

Dean pauses to get a cigarette lit, and Sam steps closer to his bad side, covering it in case his brother gets jostled by the people walking by.

"Where'd you say this bar is?" Dean asks, snapping his lighter shut and tucking it into his pocket.

"Not far. Couple of blocks. I saw it while we were looking for the apartment. Looked cheap."

"Cheap is good. Think they have a pool table?"

Sam shrugs. "Looked like the kinda place where they might."

"We could use a little extra cash."

"I know."

They start forward, and Sam realizes that he's glad he let Dean convince him to come to Texas. It has to be at least seventy degrees, and it's only April. It was still cold and threatened to sleet in Kansas when they left, but now, he doesn't even need the flannel shirt he's got on over his blue t-shirt. It feels nice.

The wail of a siren suddenly pierces the warm air, rises above the traffic noises, and Dean and Sam both turn automatically to watch the ambulance as it passes, through the cars that pull off to the side of the road.

It stops in front of their building, and paramedics spill out, shouting to one another and barking into radios as a fire truck careens down the street towards them.

"Shit," Dean says, stops. "What the hell?"

"I dunno, man," Sam says, scans the air for signs of smoke. "Doesn't look like a fire or anything. Fuck, I hope no one's hurt."

"Well, _someone's _clearly hurt," Dean says, waves a hand at the ambulance. "Jesus."

"Let's go," Sam says, tugs his brother's sleeve, suddenly anxious. "Nothing we can do. Not our kind of problem."

Dean lets himself be led forward, but casts another look back. "Shit. Hope everything's all right."

"Yeah." Sam keeps walking, doesn't want to get sucked into this, not right now. He has a bad feeling, all of a sudden, deep in the pit of his stomach. He just wants a calm vacation without any fucking ambulances or blood or anything like that. Is that so much to ask?

Calm down, he tells himself. It's just a natural reaction to the sirens.

Nothing a few shots of whiskey won't fix.

To be continued…


	2. Chapter 2

The bar, it turns out, is _not _cheap – it's expensive, and loud, and filled to the brim with rowdy twenty-somethings, because apparently this week is spring break, and apparently there's a bajillion universities in Fort Worth.

"17," says Krissy, adjusting her red-spangled tube top. "There're 17 schools in this city."

"What's _your _school?" Dean asks, doing his very best not to slur his words, because powerful analgesics + alcohol = jus' a 'lil bitta trouble talkin', which probably ain't gonna impress Krissy. He's been _very careful, _has had – he counts on his fingers underneath the table – two beers in the apartment, two here, plus most of Sam's while Sam was in the bathroom, 'cause he got a little confused, what with all the bottles on the table, and he's got a beer in his hand, which makes just… three. Three? Damn, is he tired.

"Texas Wesleyan University," Krissy says, flips her blond hair over her shoulder. "What about you guys?"

"Stanford," Dean says, smacking Sam on the back so hard that Sam almost drops the drink he's holding. "He went to Stanford."

"Oh, cool," Krissy says, and _damn, _if Dean doesn't love a Southern accent on a pretty girl. Keep talkin', pretty accent girl. "That's a great school. What'd you study?"

"Political science and public policy," Sam says, and Dean envies the ease with which he speaks, even though he's had about twice as much to drink as Dean. Dean's practically drowsing in his chair, but Sam's still bright-eyed and alert. Since when did his little brother's tolerance get better than his?

"Since you started taking fistfuls of Vicodin, dumbass," Sam says, and Dean realizes he'd spoken the question out loud. He winces, really didn't mean to provoke a discussion of his pain management regimen in front of this girl, but Krissy doesn't seem to mind.

"I'm poli sci, too," she says to Sam, takes a long sip of her blue drink. And that's when Dean decides it's time to excuse himself, because she's giving Sam that head-tilt he knows only too well, and far be it from him to cockblock in any way shape or form – because Sam _needs _to get laid.

"I'm gonna take a piss," Dean announces, which was supposed to come out as _Excuse me for one moment gentlepeople, if you'd be so kind, _but oh the fuck well.

Sam watches as his brother puts a palm on the table like he's going to push himself up, watches as he switches the palm for an elbow, and then props his head up in his hand as if he's forgotten he was ever planning on getting up. Watches as Dean's eyes slip shut.

He gives it a second, then says, "Hey."

Dean doesn't stir, but then his mouth parts a little, hangs slack, and Sam realizes he's _sleeping. _

He blinks for a moment, then turns to Krissy, who's watching with a mixture of concern and drunken fascination.

"Should we draw somethin' on his face?" she drawls. "That's what you get when you pass out with your shoes on."

"Nah," Sam says, wincing, remembers the horror of looking in the mirror one Saturday morning and seeing a gigantic permanent marker penis curving down his cheek and towards his mouth. "I think I'd better take him home, though."

"Might be a good idea."

Sam reaches over, gives Dean a gentle shake, and when that doesn't work, smacks him across the back of the head.

Dean's chin bounces off of his hand and he nearly does a faceplant onto the table, but he saves himself just in time.

"Dude," he protests, drags the back of his hand across his mouth.

"Come on," Sam says, shoves Dean's cane at him. "Time to go."

Dean slides a sleepy, drunken glance at Krissy and then back to Sam. "You c'n stay, you should—"

"Let's _go._"

Dean gives up, plants his hands on the table and pushes himself painstakingly to his feet.

"Bye," Sam says to Krissy, who's already turned back to her girlfriends. She spares them a brief wave and a rueful smile, and Dean lets out a gusty sigh at Sam's elbow.

Sam stays a step behind Dean, watching as he maneuvers himself through the crowds of students and out into the warm night.

Only when they're free of the people and Dean begins to make his way down the sidewalk does Sam realize that he's stumbling all over the place, eyes at half-mast, bad leg slurring behind him like he can't remember how to move it.

Sam finds Dean's sleeve with his hand, gives a tug. "Hang onto me," he directs, wishes he himself felt a little steadier, but at least he can form sentences. "Dude, you gotta look less like a crazy drunk, okay? Really don't wanna get arrested our first night."

"Got it," Dean says solemnly, leans onto Sam's good arm without protest. "'Sides, 'm not drunk. I am just tired." He's over enunciating everything carefully.

"Right."

"You coulda, with that girl," Dean says, after they've taken a few halting steps. "If I hadn't… Sorry, dude. I shoulda counted better."

"I wouldn't have, anyway," Sam says. "I wanted to leave. Not really our crowd, huh?"

"Students," Dean says, and stops abruptly, starts patting himself down as a few passerbys give them a curious glance. "Students are _too_ your crowd."

"Dean, come on, what are you doing?"

"Cigarette."

"Later," Sam says, "let's just get back, okay?"

"Okay," Dean says, grabs Sam's arm and starts moving again. "This is ri-di-cu-lous," he addresses the cement. "I thought I'd be carryin' _him _home."

"Joke's on you," Sam says wearily, trying to remember if there's any Jack left back in the apartment.

"She was cute, though, huh Sam?"

"Guess so. Not really my type."

"She was blonde."

"I'm not looking for a replacement, Dean," Sam snaps, and Dean bites his lip.

"Sorry."

"I'm not ready, okay?" Sam says a moment later. "So don't try to set me up."

"It'd be good for you. Grown man. Gotta… grown men need…"

"I really don't wanna hear what grown men need, thanks."

Dean goes for a leer, but it dissolves into a grimace as he steps wrong on his bad leg and has to clutch at Sam's arm. "What the fuck," he says, a little breathless, looks completely confused. "I am… I'm _wasted._"

"You got the memo, too?"

"No," Dean says, shakes his head. "Not wasted. Just. Fucked up."

"You gotta watch it with the painkillers and the alcohol, dude."

"No shit. 'S this new stuff. Knocks me on my ass."

"I shoulda been watching you closer."

"No," Dean says, comes to a halt. "You don't… 's me who should… _you _need to drink so much. Less." He pauses, and adds, "Dude," as an afterthought.

"We're almost home, man, get moving." Sam gives him a gentle nudge, grips his elbow as he starts to stumble forward. "You think you can put on a good show of sobriety for the doorman?"

"Ha!" Dean says, stops again, leverages a finger at the air around Sam. "You're drunk, too, you little asshole."

"I never said I wasn't," Sam says. "_Move._"

"'S hard," Dean complains.

"Suck it up."

Dean grins, gets himself going again. He's quiet as they make their way up the block, clearly concentrating on putting his feet in the right places, and Sam's grateful. He offers tight smiles to the people who give him strange looks as they pass, wishes he had never pushed Dean into a vacation in the city, because _damn, _there are a lot of people around. And cars. And it's _late. _One a.m., and there's still people milling about, girls tripping by in high heels and giggling at Dean, who doesn't fail to give them a wink and his cocky grin, like he's not draped over his brother 'cause he can't hold himself up.

But finally, they're in front of their building, and Sam lets out a sigh of relief – until he sees the yellow tape stretched across their door, the doorman planted like a guardian, legs splayed, arms crossed.

"Uh, we're staying here," Sam says, grateful that Dean has pushed himself off of Sam and is standing with just one hand on his arm for balance.

"I.D.," the doorman says importantly as they approach, crosses his hands in front of his ample belly and eyes them up and down. Sam gently pushes Dean to the wall, where he leans like it's his duty to keep the building up, and fumbles in his wallet for the I.D. the Finklesteins had left on the kitchen table for them.

"Here," Sam says, produces it, and the doorman gives it a long, scrutinizing glare.

"Uh," Sam says, gestures to the tape, and the _**CRIME SCENE**_signs. "What happened?"

"Suicide," doorman says shortly, hands back the I.D. "Least, that's what the cops say. Pretty weird, if you ask me."

"Weird how?" Sam asks, though _no, _he doesn't want to know, he doesn't want to know.

"That's the third one this month," the doorman confides. "Enough to make a man wanna quit, you know what I'm saying?"

"Yeah," Sam says, stomach plummeting horribly, darting a look at Dean, who's got his eyes closed, doesn't appear to have heard. He offers an "I'm sorry" to the doorman because he isn't sure what else to say.

The doorman huffs a sigh, steps aside to let Sam fumble the key in the lock.

"You mind holding the door open while I get my brother inside?" Sam asks, moving towards Dean, who wakes up a little at his approach. "He, his leg, it's—"

"I'm handicapped, you intolerant asshole," Dean barks, and Sam winces at his misplaced accusation.

"Just get in here, dude," he says, tugs him off the wall and ushers him inside, casts a weak smile back at the doorman, who looks mortified. Nothin' like the allegation of prejudice to make someone really fuckin' uncomfortable, and Dean pulls it out from time to time when he needs information or access on a hunt. But this? Really not the moment or occasion.

Sam manhandles his brother into the elevator, punches the button for the fifth floor, tries really, really, _really _hard not to think about what the doorman had said.

_Third one this month._

There's gotta be a perfectly logical explanation. People get depressed. It happens.

_Not three times in one month._

"'S wrong?" Dean asks, nudging Sam's foot with his cane.

"Nothin'," Sam says, because, even if he's gonna tell Dean, now's not the time.

The Finklesteins' apartment smells a little less like baby powder and a little more like gun oil and pizza, which Sam is glad for.

"Let's get you to bed," Sam says, guiding Dean towards the bedroom.

"Y'see?" Dean mutters sleepily. "Thas all you woulda had to say to Krissy."

"Yeah, well," Sam says. "Looks like you were easier than she was."

"'M easy," Dean agrees. "'S a well-known fact."

Sam tries to get him down onto the bed, but Dean struggles wildly. "Need a cigarette," he says. "Gonna _die._"

"And you call me a drama queen," Sam grumbles, but lets Dean limp over to the balcony and collapse into the plastic chaise lounge, which creaks under his weight.

The second his brother's down and fumbling for his cigarettes, Sam knows it's gonna be a bitch to get him back up.

Dean lights his smoke with surprisingly good aim, takes a long drag and leans back, closes his eyes.

"Dean," Sam says, and Dean cracks a lid, takes another drag. "I'm gonna get you some water."

"Thanks, Sammy," Dean says, and shuts his eye again.

Sam trudges into the kitchen, pours a glass of water and spends a half-hearted moment rifling through the fridge to see if there's an errant beer left over. No luck. He pauses in the living room to dip into Dean's jacket to see if the flask is there, but there's nothing but the Impala's keys and an empty pack of cigarettes, which Sam tosses into the garbage.

Dean is still on the balcony when Sam heads back into the room, half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips, ash piled on his chest, in the vee of his throat. Asleep.

Sam gives him a shake and Dean wakes with a start.

"Drink," Sam says, and Dean takes the glass in both hands and chugs it like a beer, then flops back onto the chair, brushing ineffectually at the ash on his shirt.

"Bed," Sam says, and Dean groans a little, waves his brother away.

"'S nice out here, Sam," he says. "Lemme stay."

"No, dude. You stay here, it's gonna hurt like a bitch in the morning. Think about it."

Dean does appear to think, or at least does a good impression, nose screwing up, forehead scrunched. "Fine," he says at last, and reaches out a hand for Sam to pull him up.

Dean flops onto the bed with a groan and is asleep almost immediately. Sam props his cane up by the bed, gets a pillow under his bad knee, works to get his left boot off before he goes for the right foot, is very careful of Dean's leg. His brother is breathing quietly, steadily, and Sam stops and listens for a moment, just in case.

This will be the first time they've slept in separate rooms since they left Stanford. Well, there were those few nights with Claire – but at least Sam knew Dean wasn't alone. It just makes him a little nervous, being in this big apartment, just the two of them. Anything could happen. Look what happened with Jess.

Sam does the rounds of the doors and windows with the salt, offers a silent apology to Gene and Marilynn for salting their nice wood floors. He checks on Dean. Still breathing.

He wanders into the kitchen, helps himself to a slice of cold pizza and starts rummaging through the cabinets, wondering if maybe the Finkelsteins have something he could drink. He'll replace it tomorrow.

He finds, luckily, a dusty, half-finished bottle of Makers Mark, and he pours himself a generous glass and heads into the living room. He means to read, maybe get through a few chapters of _The Amazing Adventures of Kavelier and Clay,_ which he's been trying to finish for weeks now, but he's a little too drunk to focus on the type, and instead finds himself sitting on the couch and staring at the blank television. There's a huge lace doily on top, and a vase of silk roses, and he feels like they're staring right back at him.

He resists the urge to get up and check on his brother again, because, as he counsels himself, Dean's _fine, _just had a little too much to drink. But shit, he really should have been watching. Should go online and see what happens when you mix such strong painkillers and alcohol. Sam doesn't even know how much Dean had to drink, and that? Is kind of inexcusable.

Sam's trying, he really is. But it's hard, really fucking hard. He honestly doesn't know how Dean did it all those years. It's not just the constant worry, though that, yeah, that's fucking hard, too. It's just… he feels like every corner he turns, he's met with failure, like someone's mocking him; _You can't keep him safe. _ I mean, jesus, he tries to take Dean on a vacation, and what does he do? Lets Dean drink himself into alcohol poisoning on the first night. Plants them directly in the middle of a hunt.

_It might not be anything, _Sam tells himself, pouring another glass of whiskey. _It might just be coincidence. _

But he knows. He knows there are no coincidences, not like this, not with the back of his neck prickling every time he thinks of it. _Three suicides in one month._

Sam runs a hand down his face, thinks maybe he just won't tell Dean. Will proceed with the vacation as planned, pray to god that no one else is hurt.

Yeah. Right.

Sam folds his legs up on the couch, wraps his arms around his knees, all of a sudden misses Jess so much that he can almost smell her, the floral, human scent of her skin, like she's sitting right beside him. He wishes – god, he wishes – he wishes he could, just for a moment, put his head in her lap, feel her bitten fingernails snag on his hair. Listen to her soft voice tell him it'll be okay. _Baby, it'll be okay_.

He wipes a hand across his cheek, takes a gulp of whiskey, wants to smack himself, because there's no room for self-pity here. He has to keep it together, for Dean, has to keep it together so he can take care of his brother the way Dean's always taken care of him.

Maybe, Sam reflects a little drunkenly, maybe that's why he's so shitty at keeping his brother safe. Because he, Sam, has always been the one who's been taken care of. By Dad, and Dean, and by Jess. He's fucking up left and right because he's too goddamn soft, too goddamn weak, too used to the blanket of someone else's attention and concern; doesn't know how to spread that blanket over someone else.

He gets up, can't help himself, pads into Dean's bedroom and listens to his brother inhale, exhale, until he's assured that the pattern of breath is regular. One of Dean's hands is curled into a loose fist and his forehead is furrowed ever-so-slightly, like the pain chases him even into sleep.

_I've got you, _Sam tells him silently. _I'm here._

But, because he's weak, because he's soft, he can't help long, just for a second, that Dean were awake to repeat the words back to him.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam awakens to a dull, throbbing ache in his temples, a crick in his neck, and a tongue reminiscent of the Sahara. He can smell the acrid scent of just-smoked cigarettes, which alerts him that Dean is nearby – he just doesn't expect to find his brother's tight-lipped glare looming so _very_ close to his face.

"Hey," Sam says, rubs at the sandpaper of his eyes, grimaces. "Sleep well?"

"The hell is this?" Dean asks by way of a good morning, waves the dusty bottle of whiskey he must have found uncapped on the coffee table. The liquid sloshes up the sides and Sam's stomach roils in response.

"Uh," Sam says, not sure if it's a trick question.

"You stealin' from old people now?"

"Dude," Sam says, half amused at Dean's indignation, half defensive. "I was gonna replace it. We were out."

"You couldn't have just gone to sleep and waited 'til morning?"

"I wasn't tired." Sam pushes himself upright, groans as his muscles protest the night spent on the couch. He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he guesses it was probably sometime around three. Late enough for him to have killed a fair amount of that bottle. He rubs his sore shoulder, frowns at Dean. "Dude, you were out like a light last night. You feel okay?"

"I'm fine," Dean says. "Don't change the subject."

"I wasn't aware there was a subject to change." Sam yawns, listens to the crack of his jaw echo across the living room. "You look like shit, man."

"Sam…"

"What?" Sam reaches over and swipes the almost-empty bottle out of Dean's hand. "You seriously pissed about this? Tell you what. I'll buy them _two _to replace this_ one_."

"Sam, it's not… it's not about…" Dean trails to a stop, shakes his head, rubs roughly at his bad knee. He really _does _look like shit, three-day beard coming in over his too-hollow cheekbones, dark circles under his eyes, skin pale. Sam takes pity on him.

"You want some coffee? I need some coffee."

Dean looks at him for a moment, clearly wants to say something else, but just sighs and says, "Yeah. I could use some coffee."

Sam stands, winces a little as his head pounds with the change in altitude, staggers into the kitchen, which is a particularly hideous shade of elderly mustard that really doesn't help his headache any. He rummages around in the cupboards and finds a teakettle, a French press, and a tin of Costa Rican coffee; can't help but feel a little guilty, because Dean's right, they're not really supposed to eat anything the Finklesteins left behind, even if it is just a couple tablespoons of coffee.

Sam hears the tap-thump of Dean's cane, doesn't turn as he listens to his brother come into the room, lower himself down into a chair with a creak of old wood.

"I'm using their coffee," Sam says. "Just this once, 'til we can get to the store."

"Fine by me," Dean says, and Sam casts an annoyed glance over his shoulder.

"So if we're stealing to feed your caffeine addiction, it's okay?"

Dean's mouth works a little, and he swallows audibly, that strange expression back on his face, like he really wants to say something but doesn't know how.

"You want first shower while I brew this?" Sam asks quickly, because for some reason, whatever Dean's trying to say, he's not sure he wants to hear it.

Dean scrubs a hand over his jaw. "Fine, Sam. Sure."

"What time is it?"

Dean checks his watch. "Little after ten."

"I was thinking, we should get to the grocery store as soon as possible. Stock up. You don't have to come, you could—"

"I'll come."

Sam slumps next to him at the table, rubs his temples. "Where's the first aid kit?"

"Duffle in my room. Hungover?"

"Little bit. I'm surprised _you're _not worse."

Dean shrugs. "Vicodin. God bless."

"You need to be careful. No way are you supposed to be mixing alcohol with your meds like that."

"No shit, dude. Honestly? I was pretty much gone after two beers."

Sam grins. "So I noticed."

"I remember leaving the bar, but not coming back here."

Sam's grin fades a little as he remembers the doorman's revelation of last night. _Three suicides in one month. _Fuck. He's got to tell Dean, soon. It's the right thing to do. But, fuck—

"I do anything embarrassing?"

Sam pretends to think. "Besides exposing yourself to those old ladies? Nah."

Dean cocks his head, trying to gauge Sam's honesty. "Fuck you."

"Go take your shower, man."

Dean nods, hoists himself to his feet and gives Sam another strange, furtive glance, which Sam avoids.

His brother disappears out the door of the kitchen, and Sam gets a couple mugs out of the cupboards, one with an enormous-eyed white kitten, and one with _World's Best Grandpa _emblazoned across it in sickly pink letters. The teakettle whistles, and Sam's reminded yet again of his headache.

He pours the water into the press, decides to let it sit for a moment, then wanders into Dean's bedroom to get the Advil.

Dean is smoking on the balcony, boxer-clad, towel clutched in his hand like he'd been getting ready to take his shower before being rudely interrupted by a nicotine craving. He's got his back to the street, maybe so he doesn't have to see how high up he is, and he waves at Sam through the glass door as Sam heads over to the duffle.

"Side pocket," Dean calls, his voice muffled, and Sam finds the white bottle, nods a thanks at Dean, who takes a drag of his cigarette and blows a perfect smoke ring in response.

Back in the kitchen, Sam downs a couple of the pills with some water, pours himself a cup of coffee. He hears the shower start from the bathroom, and heads into the living room, thinks maybe he'll skip his own shower this morning – he's just too damn lazy. _Kavelier and Clay _is lying facedown on the coffee table, next to the bottle of whiskey, and Sam picks it up, reads one sentence. "_You were watching my fingers. Don't watch my fingers. My fingers are liars. I have taught them to tell pretty lies." _Puts it down again, 'cause, yeah, not gonna happen.

He has to tell Dean. If he doesn't, Dean will just find out for himself, see the caution tape and start asking questions. And besides – Sam hasn't been trained to ignore shit like this. He doesn't know if he could live with himself, if someone else got hurt, knowing that he could have done something to stop it.

And hey, maybe, maybe after digging into the situation a little, they'll find that it's just a coincidence after all. There are a lot of old people in this apartment, and old people, well, _die. _Maybe it just _looked _like suicide, when actually the deaths were perfectly natural, no matter what the police say. Sam's known some pretty intelligent cops in his day, but the majority? He wouldn't trust 'em with his third-grade English homework.

Goddammit, he just wants to stretch out by the pool like he'd planned, drink a six-pack and _relax. _Not worry, for just one second, about other people and their stupid lives.

But as soon as the thought runs through his head, he feels guilty, passes a hand over his face with a groan. His stomach rumbles, that peculiar nauseous hunger he always feels when he's hung over, and he contemplates heating up a piece of last night's pizza – it sounds both disgusting and appealing. He wishes the Advil would kick in a little faster, calm his head.

He eyes the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, figures what the hell, adds a generous splash to his coffee cup. Tastes better like this, the bite of the alcohol waking him up a little, helping him think more clearly. He takes a long gulp, adds some more, just to even out the ratio.

Maybe he'll wait to tell Dean about the suicides. Give them both just one afternoon of pool-lounging. Tell Dean in the evening, not too late, so they can start on some research if they need to, but not too early, so they can have a little time to chill before it's up-and-at-'em again.

The shower turns off in the bathroom, and Sam glances at the whiskey, barely any left, so he empties the bottle into his cup; really more alcohol than coffee at this point. He goes into the kitchen to put the empty bottle back in the back of the cupboard, because, well, he doesn't know where the glass recycling is just yet, and he doesn't really want Dean to see that he's finished it. Not like he needs to answer to Dean, just… he doesn't want Dean to see. Knows he'd get some kind of shit for drinking so early, even if it's just good-natured teasing. Doesn't feel like dealing with that right now.

Sam finishes his Irish coffee with a grimace, can feel the whiskey warming his stomach, spreading through his limbs. He feels a little better, rinses the mug and his mouth out with water before pouring himself another cup of plain coffee. Can't help but wish there'd been a little more left in that bottle. He's thinking clearer, now, that pit of anxiety dissipating a little.

He'll tell Dean about the suicides later. After some breakfast, after a swim. Maybe that's how they'll do this. Mornings for vacation, afternoons for work. No reason to completely scrap the vacation idea, just because there are people dying. People're always dying.

He hears Dean's uneven steps, and his brother comes into the kitchen to lean against the doorjamb, hair sticking up in wet, dark spikes, feet bare on the tiled floor.

"Coffee?" Sam asks, and Dean grins.

**

It feels strange to be in a grocery store, shopping for food for a whole week. Sam realizes, after half an hour of wandering around the market, that they're both taking it pretty seriously, examining prices and labels, comparing natural peanut butter with Skippy, carefully selecting their head of lettuce. He'd kind of figured Dean would be useless, grabbing chips and soda and all sorts of junk food, but Dean's actually better at this than Sam is, which is surprising until Sam thinks back on the months they used to spend in one place when they were growing up, and how the fridge was always stocked, if not ­_well-_stocked. He sure doesn't remember shopping very often, and he's pretty damn sure John never did.

The store's not that big, just a family-owned market, but it's lucky they've only got one available arm each, because otherwise they probably would have filled six bags, easy, even though they can't afford it. But as it is, they manage to cram everything into two, though the brown paper is stuffed to the brim and Sam prays they don't split open on the six-block walk back to the apartment.

"Y'all gonna be okay?" the cashier asks nervously, and Sam knows they must look like an accident waiting to happen – or rather, an accident already happened, him with his sling and Dean with his cane, both of them with faded yellow bruises and mostly-healed cuts on their faces.

"We're fine," Dean assures her, then spends the next five minutes bitching about how he got the heavier bag, until Sam can't take it anymore and just switches with him. Realizes Dean was right, and now Sam's stuck with the bag with all the cans.

He'd managed to distract Dean from asking about the caution tape on the way out, mostly by harassing him about whether or not Dad is being straight with them, which is one surefire way to get his brother red-faced and defensive in a matter of minutes, and Sam's not feeling too guilty about the deception, since he half-meant the things he said. But he's not sure how he's gonna get it past Dean on the way back in.

He shifts the heavy bag on his hip, turns to ask Dean if he's doing all right, then realizes he's been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he's left his brother trailing nearly half a block behind him.

He stops by a beauty parlor to let Dean catch up, tries to blow his bangs out of his eyes and then gives up, sets his bag down and brushes his hair back from his damp forehead. He's wearing a t-shirt and a button-up, and he's comfortably too warm, with the sun burning lazily down onto the pavement, catching the highlights in everything; the silver fenders of passing cars, the shine of girls' hair, the refraction of light from shop windows and street signs, the glint of Dean's amulet at his neck as his brother nears.

"You need a freakin' haircut," Dean comments, "before you turn from Sasquatch into the Yeti." He's a little breathless, and Sam can see that he's getting tired from the time spent on his feet, is having a little trouble walking with the bag throwing off his balance.

"Aren't they the same thing?" Sam asks, starts moving again, slower, trying to match his steps to Dean's halting ones. "We've only got two and a half blocks left. Then the pool."

"It's gonna be all old ladies in bikinis," Dean groans. "I know it is."

"Dude, you're the one who whined for a place with pool like an eight year-old."

"If I'm lucky they'll have those little skirts. I fucking love those little swim skirts, with the flowers, and the ruffles."

"You astound me."

"I'm serious!"

"I _know._"

Sam gets nervous as they approach the door of their building, but he needn't have worried. He's underestimated how much the twelve blocks and the hour walking around the market have affected his brother, and Dean's got his lower lip tucked between his teeth, is clearly more focused on putting one foot in front of the other than he is on the caution tape around the door. He gives it a cursory glance, brow furrowing a bit like he's gonna say something, but then he stumbles a little over the doorjamb and nearly drops the grocery bag, and doesn't mention it.

In the apartment Sam unloads the groceries while Dean excuses himself for a smoke, though they both know it's more about the fact that he needs to sit down than it is that he needs a cigarette. Sam slides a bunch of carrots into the crisper and fights down his guilt – the doorman swore the nearest market was six blocks away, and it's good for Dean to get a little exercise, anyway.

He makes himself a turkey sandwich and wanders out to the balcony as soon as the groceries are put away, finds Dean lying back on the chaise lounge with his shoes off, cigarette in his mouth and an arm flung over his eyes to block them from the light, looking for all the world like a sunbathing housewife.

Sam slides the door open, and Dean lifts his arm, peers at Sam, puffs smoke.

"You want a sandwich?"

"Nah."

"You need to eat something."

"Dude," Dean says, makes a face. "I was wasted last night, remember? The stomach's a little iffy."

Sam looks at him for a moment, then says, "I'm gonna make a run to the liquor store on the corner. Pick up some beer. Anything you want?"

Dean pushes himself up a little, stares at Sam inscrutably. "You know it's like, noon, right?"

"Just 'cause you can't handle your alcohol," Sam says, and Dean's lips tighten.

"Sam," Dean says, maneuvers himself upright with a wince, levers a worried look at his brother. "You gotta – you've been drinking too much, dude. It's —"

"Dean," Sam interrupts, suddenly pissed off. "I really don't need you to police me, thanks. If I wanted someone to bitch at me for no reason, I'd call Dad."

"I'm just—"

"Don't." Sam slams the glass door, turns away from Dean's surprised face, the green eyes comically wide, mouth in an O. He stalks into the kitchen, snatches the keys and his wallet from the counter, is out of the apartment before his brother can come after him.

He fumes in the elevator down to the lobby, stares at himself in the mirrored walls, not sure why he's so annoyed, but he _is. _And Dean's right, he _does_ needs a fucking haircut_, _which for some reason pisses him off even more. He brushes his bangs out of his face with such force that he nearly takes an eye out, thinks that whatever he does, Dean's gonna find something to complain about, so why even bother trying?

And, okay, sure, maybe he's been drinking more than usual, but Dean's one to talk, with his pill-popping, two-pack a day habits – his brother's a fucking hypocrite, has always been a hypocrite, and if Sam wants to have a few beers in the afternoon (_a few shots in the morning_), he's more than entitled to it.

He just wishes he could turn off that little voice in the back of his head, the one that sounds a hell of a lot like Dean, the voice that's telling him it's really not a good sign that this not-even-an-argument has made him want a drink _bad_, crave the slide of whiskey over his tongue, the warmth, the relief.

The elevator stops with a cheerful _ding! _and Sam moves out into the lobby, starts to leave then pulls up short next to the doorman.

"Hey," he says, and the man gives him a professional nod, links his hands together and rocks back on his heels.

"Warm day," Sam offers.

"No warmer than most."

"Right." He pauses, mind racing. "Uh, I was wondering – my brother and I, we're quite religious, and – we'd like to include the recently deceased in our nightly, uh, worship-sessions. Prayers. So I was wondering if you could tell me their names and a little bit about how they – you know…"

The doorman beams, reaches into his shirt, flashes a gaudy gold cross. "Well, sure – I'm a God-fearing man, myself. Though these poor souls are already burning in the fiery torments of Down There, if the cops're telling the truth about the suicides."

"Well," Sam says. "A little extra prayer never hurt anyone."

"That sure is true. Let's see, we had Jane Winslow up in five-oh-nine, Emmet Meckler in four-three-six, and Marlon Schefter in six-nineteen."

Sam's scrambling for the grocery receipt in his pocket, fumbling one-handedly to write the names down with the nub of a pencil he'd taken from the circulation desk at a library back in Oklahoma.

He raises his knee awkwardly, hops a little as he rests the paper against it, scrawls untidily. "Jane, Emmet, and Marlon."

"That's right. And as for how they died – well – they all, uh, _did it, _the same way. Took a swan dive right off the balcony."

Sam pauses, looks up. "The balcony?"

"Yep." He makes a whistling noise, rides his hand through the air, makes a fist. "Splat."

Sam flinches. "Jesu—Gosh."

"Yep. Tragedy." The doorman shakes his head, smoothes his jacket. "Pray for 'em good, son."

"I will," Sam promises, feeling guilty. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me," he says, wags a thick finger towards the sky. "Thank Big Poppa up there."

Sam thinks _Big Poppa _sounds more like a porn star name than a title for the heavenly father, but he smiles politely and hurries away.

Jumped off the balconies, jesus. Had they been pushed? Coerced? Were they possessed? It's hard to make any conjectures without doing a little research, and Sam grits his teeth in frustration, longs for a strong internet connection and a few hours to gather his thoughts before he brings this to Dean. It sure as hell _sounds _like their kind of problem; the three 'suicides,' so close together, manner of death so repetitive, generally a sign of supernatural activity. Spirits in particular follow patterns, have rules; could be a spirit. Gotta look into the history of the building, check if it's been built over anything suspicious, see if there's a history of suicide or if this is new.

God_dammit._ He needs a drink, he does, because this _sucks, _and he's stressed out, and he can feel himself unraveling, anxiety nipping at his lungs, settling heavy in his stomach.

At the liquor store Sam gets a 24-pack of Pabst and a 75 of Jack, hesitates before buying a flask, too. Tells himself it's just more convenient, the flask, that he's not buying it just because he wants to have something Dean doesn't know about.

He smiles at the doorman on the way in, balancing the rack precariously under his good arm, the bag in his hand, hopes that the large amounts of alcohol he's carrying don't ruin his religious cred.

In the elevator he drops his purchases and opens the flask, takes a couple generous belts, feels calmer almost immediately. Wipes his mouth and tucks the small glass bottle in the back of his jeans – where he should probably be carrying a gun, if they're on a hunt. Which it looks like they are.

He puts the beer in the fridge, the 75 on the counter, pours himself a glass of water and downs it, hopes that Dean won't smell the alcohol on his breath. Not that he's ashamed, he just really doesn't wanna get into it with his brother right now.

Dean's still out on the balcony, and from the number of butts inside the glass he's been using as an ashtray, it looks like he's been chain-smoking since Sam left twenty minutes ago. He grapples for his cane when he sees Sam come into the bedroom, and Sam notices his back is still to the street. He's hit with a pang of worry, wonders if he should keep Dean off the balcony until they know what they're dealing with.

Yeah. Right. His brother will happily just go down five stories to the street every time he wants a cigarette – which is fucking _always. _

Sam pushes down the flare of anger and pastes a bright smile on his face as Dean opens the door and comes inside.

"Pool?" Sam says brightly, doesn't give Dean a chance to answer before he turns to search for his duffle, which is still on Dean's floor, since he hadn't exactly changed into his pajamas before passing out on the couch last night. "Let's get this vacation thing started." _Before we have to end it. _

"Yeah," Dean says after a moment, sits heavily down on the bed to start rummaging through his own bag. "Oh, fuck, dude."

Sam looks up from where he's crouched on the floor. "What?"

"We forgot to buy coconuts. And I left my bikini in Kansas."

Sam snorts, pulls out a faded pair of baby blue board shorts, and Dean stares in disbelief.

"Dude. Are those the same trunks I bought you when you were seventeen? Right before you moved to California?"

"So?" Sam holds them to his chest defensively.

"Just…"

"What?"

"Nothin', man."

"They fit fine," Sam says. "What the hell are _you_ gonna swim in, huh?"

"Boxers," Dean says reasonably, searching for the pair he's got in mind, in honor of their vacation: Flamingos and pineapples. He holds them up for Sam's approval, gets a disbelieving eye-roll, which is pretty much what he was going for.

Sam leaves to let him change in private, and Dean starts wincing his way out of his jeans and leg brace and into the flamingo boxers, tries not to look at his scars. He feels a little like a self-conscious, pudgy fourteen year-old girl in an ill-fitting bathing suit – really doesn't want to get stared at. But, fuck it, what the hell is he supposed to do? Buy a wet suit?

Last time he was in water – on purpose, anyway – was during physical therapy at the hospital. Lap after excruciating lap, weight-bearing exercises, resistance training, all in the big, echoing hospital pool with his peppy physical therapist shouting encouragement at him while the chlorine burned his throat. Should ruin the idea of swimming for him, but he still remembers the freedom he felt in the water, the way he could move around without worrying about pain, how nice it was to float.

His phone shrills an alarm, and he reaches for his cane, gets himself to his feet and heads over to the bureau, chases down his Vicodin with the glass of water there.

Sam comes back into the bedroom, clad in his ridiculous, too-small California-style board shorts and a t-shirt, and he and Dean spend a brief moment disapproving of the other's swimwear before Sam says, "All right. Chlorine."

"You get a towel for me?" Dean asks, nudges his chin at the mass of pink terrycloth that's slung over Sam's shoulder.

"Yeah. Shit – we forgot to sign the waver."

"I promise not to let you drown, Sammy."

"Do we even know where the pool is?"

"I do. Saw the signs in the lobby."

Sam looks down at himself, looks at his brother. "Think we can go down like this?"

"Dude, we're paying good money for this apartment. What, you think my leg's gonna scare some old ladies?"

"It's not your _leg _I'm worried about," Sam says, winces as Dean chortles. "You're sick, you know that?"

"Bring some pants if you're so worried," Dean says.

"Whatever," Sam says, turns to head out. Dean grabs his cigarettes off the bed and follows, embarrassed to find that he's a little shaky without the support of his leg brace, especially after the exertion of this morning.

Yeah. Carrying groceries home was _exertion. _Christ, he really does belong in a retirement home.

Sam stops in the kitchen, throws Dean a defiant glare and grabs a brown bag off the counter, opens the fridge and starts loading beers in, rolls it up and tucks it under his good arm, cans clanking a little.

Dean doesn't say anything, although he _wants _to – but he doesn't want Sam to react like he did last time, shut down, like a door slammed in his face. And maybe Sam's half-right, maybe Dean is being kind of a nag. They're on "vacation," after all, and Sam – god knows Sam deserves a vacation. Except, it hasn't just been on this vacation that Sam's been drinking – but hey, he's twenty-two, should be in college – college boys drink. Dean would probably be drinking, if he weren't so fucking drugged up in the first place. Maybe he's being stupid. Maybe there's really nothing to worry about.

"You hungry?" Sam asks.

"Not really."

"I'm gonna bring down some of these crackers and peanut butter, just in case."

"Fine." As long as Sam's still trying to mother-hen him, Dean can't be too worried. Shouldn't be too worried.

They find the pool without trouble, following the signs in the lobby and padding through the carpeted corridors until they turn the corner and are greeted by two doors leading out onto a red-tiled patio. The pool is big, kidney-shaped, with perfectly clear, blue chlorinated water that's surrounded by old chaise lounges, a couple hole-y umbrellas, and some incredibly fake palm trees. Dean notes unhappily that there are a few people out, a pair of older, shockingly tan women with matching platinum hair, and a young couple with a little kid who's got yellow plastic bubbles attached to his arms and is jetting through the water with a look of fierce absorption. Maybe someone's grandson.

Dean follows Sam, concentrates on not letting his cane slip on the wet tile rather than looking to see if people are staring at him. He halts when Sam does, by a pair of chairs, lowers himself carefully down as his brother surveys the pool, turns with a smile.

"Not bad, huh?"

"_Love _the trees," Dean effuses in a falsetto, and Sam snorts.

The sun feels _good_, feels amazing, in fact, and Dean peels off his t-shirt, gets his legs up and leans back, hopes maybe he can get a tan while they're here, 'cause he's pretty freakin' pasty from months of winter, and before that, the hospital. He fumbles for his smokes and bumps one from the pack, closes his eyes as he takes a drag, savors the feeling of nicotine in his lungs and sun on his body. He'll finish this one cigarette and then he'll jump in the water. Well, maybe not jump. Ease himself in enthusiastically.

"Uh," Sam says, and Dean cracks an eyelid. Sam's taken his sling off and is cradling his arm against his chest, looking hesitant.

"C'mere," Dean says with an eye roll, and Sam scoots his chair closer so he's sitting right next to Dean. Dean can't help but cast a quick eye around the pool, but no one's watching, and seriously, who really gives a fuck, so he reaches out and starts easing Sam's shirt over his head, doing his best not to jostle his brother's arm. He's pretty good at this, since he's done it every night for a freakin' week.

"Thanks," Sam says when he's done, scoots his chair back and reaches for a beer. Dean looks away.

"Dude," Sam says appraisingly. "You really need to gain some weight."

"Fuck you," Dean snaps, resists the urge to cross his arms over his too-prominent ribs. He could still beat Sam in an arm-wrestling contest, and that's what counts.

"Here," Sam says, sets his beer down and rustles in the brown bag, comes out with a jar of peanut butter. "New plan. You eat a spoonful of this every hour."

"Dude."

"Come on. It's quick, it's easy, it's—"

"It's not _quick, _it's sticky and takes forever to swallow, and it gets stuck in your throat, and you can't get the taste out unless…" Dean realizes he's whining and trails off.

Sam's unscrewing the jar, shoving it towards his brother. "You really need the extra calories. Just do it."

"I don't have a spoon."

"When has that ever stopped you from eating peanut butter?"

Dean sighs, takes a drag of his cigarette then reaches over and swipes his finger in the jar, because actually? This isn't a bad idea. Better than choking down a piece of pizza as a snack, just for the sake of appearances.

He grimaces around the mouthful, reaches over for Sam's beer and chases the peanut butter down with a gulp, smacks his lips. "Ugh."

"Gross," Sam says, sipping his beer. "This tastes like peanut butter now."

Dean takes a last drag of his cigarette and grinds it out on the wet tile underneath the chair, reaches for his cane. "I'm going in."

"You need—?"

"I'm good." Dean climbs to his feet, makes his way over to the shallow end, carefully lowers his cane to the tile and grips the metal railing that leads down the wide steps into the pool. He takes a tentative step, leans heavy on the rail with both hands and lowers himself down the first stair. The young couple with the kid are over in the corner pretending not to watch him, and he does his best to ignore their curious stares, too-aware that he looks ridiculous, that his scars are glinting silver in the bright sun.

The railing runs out when the water is up to his hip, and he hesitates before letting go, takes a few awkward shuffle-hops before he flops over into the chlorinated water.

It feels amazing – too cold, shocking his whole body, goosebumps rising immediately over every inch of his skin. He rises with a gasp, shakes his head and paddles out until the water is up to his armpits, then lowers his bad leg gingerly to the cement bottom. With the water holding his weight and his hands paddling at his sides he can take a couple steps, almost like he's walking normally, and even though it's not real, it's awesome.

He looks up, sees Sam watching him, and he can't help the grin that splits his face.

"What the fuck are you doing out there?" Dean calls, ignores the glares from the young parents. "Get in here."

"You're just gonna try and dunk me," Sam says. "I'm not taking any chances."

"What!" Dean says, mock-offended, although, yeah, he's pretty excited to shove his brother under water. "Come on."

Sam looks at him for a moment, then sighs, drains his beer and climbs to his feet, bad arm held against his chest. "Fine."

He walks to the deep end, toes the surface of the water. "It's _cold._"

"You're a _pussy_."

Sam makes a face, then, without any warning, leaps into the water, pulls his knees up at the last second and makes a splash so huge even the kid with water-wings twenty feet away gets a couple drops on his face.

He splutters to the surface, hair hanging over his eyes. "Ow," he says, "ow, my shoulder, ow, ow."

Dean paddles over to him, bad leg trailing through the water. "Nice splash," he says admiringly. "Fat-ass."

Sam opens his mouth to retort, and Dean grabs his shoulders and pushes as hard as he can, using his own body for leverage, grins as Sam's surprised face goes under, legs start flailing. Dean gets a kick in his bad knee for his trouble, and it hurts like a _bitch, _but it's so worth the drowned-rat face Sam gives him when he pops up, all shaggy soggy hair and hurt-puppy eyes.

"You _promised._"

"I did no such thing."

"You fucking—" Sam swipes at him, and Dean ducks, and then it's _on, _full-tilt water wrestling that ends when chlorine shoots a burning path up Dean's nose and Sam chokes out, "Drowning, drowning, can't—"

Dean releases his brother, goes limp, floats away on his back. He realizes it's been years since he and Sam last tussled, realizes it's because of his fucking leg, and his littler brother's hesitance to hurt him. Fuck _that. _He's gotta start hitting Sam more often.

"I love pools," Dean declares, stares up at the bright sky, a plane jetting its white trail across the blue like caution tape across a… wait. Why is he thinking about caution tape?

Because there's caution tape in the lobby and he keeps forgetting to ask about it. Fucking painkillers making him slow. Good thing he's got a subconscious like a steel trap.

"Sam," Dean says, "dude, did you see the tape in the lobby? The fuck do you think that's about?"

Sam's face changes suddenly, from calm to despairing in a split second, and Dean's stomach plummets. "What," he says. "What. Sam, _what?_"

Sam treads water, looks away.

"I gotta tell you something."

To be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

Dean doesn't react quite as Sam had expected to the revelation that they may have landed themselves smack-dab in the middle of a hunt: he listens patiently to what Sam's found so far, face unreadable, and when his brother's finished talking, he takes a deep breath and sinks under the blue water.

Sam waits for a moment, but when Dean doesn't emerge he gets a little worried, reaches out and gets himself a fistful of his short hair, tugs. Dean surfaces then, slow, blinks the chlorine out of his eyes, purses his lips.

"You get a timeframe on these deaths?" he asks.

Sam kicks out a little, floats himself to the cement edge of the pool so he can hang on with his good arm. "No – I mean, they happened within the last month, but I don't know when exactly, or how far apart."

Dean nods, bobs. His body looks strange under the water, pale green, misshapen from the refraction of the light so it appears slightly separate from his head. It makes Sam nauseous, for some reason.

"We should sign that swim waver thing," Dean says, "give us a good excuse to have a chat with the super. And that lady – Marcella – she said we should come talk to her any time. She strikes me as a gossip, could probably give us some good dirt on the victims. And we'll need police records, records of the builders' contract, history of the apartment, that kind of shit. And—"

"Woah, woah," Sam says, overwhelmed. "Hang on a second. Dean, we – we're still on vacation. This doesn't change that."

"How does this not change that?"

"We could save afternoons for research and shit. Swim in the morning, go to a museum — or do whatever," he adds hastily as Dean starts to roll his eyes.

"Sam, we do the job, we do the job. We're not gonna half-ass it."

"I never said we should!" Sam realizes his voice is growing louder, carrying clearly across the water to where the toddler is still paddling around with his parents. Their heads rise at Sam's tone. "I'm just saying," he continues quietly, "that we don't have to scrap the vacation idea just 'cause we're working, too."

"Sam…"

"Dean. We came here to _rest. _To relax. My shoulder is still fucked, and you swore you would stay in one place for at least a week, rest your leg, go easy on yourself just for—"

"Okay," Dean says, placating. "All right, dude. Chill."

"I am chill," Sam says, steely, because if there's one thing he hates, it's when his brother treats him like a bomb about to go off when he's just trying to simply explain something.

"Listen, Sam. We'll splash around, go to a couple museums, do the tourist thing, whatever. But job takes precedence, man. You know that."

A pause. "I know."

"Okay, then."

"Okay." They're silent for a moment, looking at one another, and Sam's not sure if the tension he feels is coming from his brother or from himself. He sighs. "I'm cold. I'm getting out."

"Let's hang here for another half hour or something, okay? Then we'll start talking to some people."

"Fine."

Dean watches as Sam climbs the ladder out of the deep end, awkward with his bad arm pulled to his chest. Heads over to the chairs, plonks himself down and runs a hand through his wet hair, stares into space. Dean turns away, strokes across the pool to where he can settle his feet gingerly on the bottom. He doesn't want to get out, back onto land, where he's heavy and uncoordinated and every movement requires thought and planning – but christ, he needs a cigarette. Needs a hundred. Sam's been edgy lately, anxious, and it makes Dean edgy and anxious, which makes him shorter with Sam, which makes Sam shorter with him, which makes him edgy and – fuck, he knows it's a vicious circle, but he can't seem to break free.

Dean ducks under the water, opens his eyes. The chlorine stings, but the blue is kind of calming, his body pale and fish-colored, scars on his leg glistening a pearly green. He kicks out carefully for the deep end, hears a tinny _snap _echo through the water as he does. He moves his limbs experimentally and realizes his bad knee makes that small snap every time he unbends it. He had no idea. Funny how water magnifies even the sounds he didn't know were there.

He stays under, stays on his belly, moves slow and careful, like his physical therapists taught him, lets his arms and good leg keep pace with the bad, methodical and unhurried.

He tries to push down his craving for a smoke, tries to let the rhythm of swimming chill him out.

If it weren't for Sam, Dean would be almost _relieved _that there's a hunt. He's really not a vacation kind of guy, and he could feel the gnaw of claustrophobia setting in, the restlessness, after just this one morning. The week had seemed to yawn out before him like a black hole of inactivity. But Sam… Dean had been hoping this vacation might smooth out some of the hard edges he'd been noticing in his brother. God knows Sam deserves a fuckin' break of _some _kind.

But after a few back-and-forths across the pool, it's Dean who has to take a break, can feel his leg aching even through the blanket of painkillers. He'd walked a lot that morning, much more than he's used to, depressing as that may be, and he's still recuperating from three days behind the wheel and being thrown against a couple walls before that. Maybe swimming laps isn't the best idea at the moment.

He glances up towards his brother, who's lying in the sun, long body stretched out on the chaise, eyes closed. From here he appears perfectly relaxed, just a college kid on spring break.

Dean fights off the jolt of despair that's a little too familiar, gives himself a mental shake. They'll finish this job as quickly as possible, maybe have a couple days to relax, like Sam wants. Give Sam a fucking break from worrying about Dean, because jesus, the kid worries like he was born to it. Dean wonders, not for the first time, what would happen if he just took off, left Sam in the apartment or in a motel, got himself out of the way so Sam could do whatever the fuck Sam wants to do – go back to school, join Dad, hell, become a male stripper… anything but _this. _Stuck in a retirement home with his big brother, who needs to rest after swimming a couple measly lap in a tiny pool.

But Dean knows what it's like to be left for your own good, and he's not gonna put Sam through that.

He pushes off from the wall, eyeballs the distance between himself and the stairs_. _He starts towards the shallow end, lets his arms do most of the work, bad leg floating along behind him. The father of the toddler has gotten out, but the mother is sitting on the stairs up to her waist in water, back against the wall, watching her kid flop around like an overgrown carp.

As he gets closer, he sees that she's not really as young as she looks from far away – is one of those older mothers he's been seeing so often lately, probably in her forties, though her kid can't be more than three. She's wearing a sensible black bathing suit and isn't particularly attractive, but Dean finds himself staring at her all the same, tracing the slope of her shoulders, the rise of her breasts under the spandex. Jesus, he needs to get laid so bad he can taste it.

He gives her an awkward smile as he hauls himself upright by the metal railing, and she returns it, looks away quickly. It's almost worse, that I-swear-I'm-not-looking-at-you eye flick. Not like he can blame her: hell, he'd probably just go ahead and stare. His leg's a fuckin' mess – he'd wonder what happened, too.

As soon as his body is free of the water, Dean feels a thousand pounds heavier, clumsy and inelegant and ridiculous. Especially, he realizes, clutching the railing and staring at the steps, especially since he isn't certain he can get up these. Going down is one thing, but up? Gonna be interesting.

He grips the railing with both hands, attempts to get his good leg up, but as soon as the weight hits, his bad knee buckles and he hastily plants his foot back down. Okay, then. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK.

"'Scuse me, hon?" the woman asks, and he glances to his side, sees her looking at him uncertainly. "You need a hand?"

"Uh," Dean says, pretty sure he's turning shades of red that haven't been invented yet. He goes for a grin, knows he fails miserably. "I'm good. But thanks."

He isn't good. He's fucked. He could go up on his ass, but accepting this woman's help would almost be preferable to that. He takes a deep breath, glances up, and sees suddenly that Sam's gotten up from his chair, is coming quickly towards him. He feels a wave of utter relief, followed by a wave of anger and humiliation so acidic he almost chokes on it. Sam doesn't need this crap, jesus, he _really _does not need this fucking crap.

"Hey," Sam says, hops down the steps towards his brother. And now it's Dean's turn to pretend not to look at the woman on the other side of the rail, because jesus, this is fucking embarrassing.

"Come one, dude," Sam says, offers his arm, and Dean takes it, manages, between Sam and the railing, to get up the first step. His brother's become a master at cane-replacement, and Dean thinks bitterly that he should rent him out to the highest bidder. He's sure plenty of old ladies would love to have Sam hanging off their arm instead of a fucking walker.

When they get to the top, Sam leans down, hands Dean his cane, hovers at his elbow until he's sure Dean's balanced and moving on his own.

"Sorry," Dean mutters, wants to make a joke but can't think of anything, so he just says, "Sorry," again, bites the inside of his cheek and ignores the burn behind his eyes.

"Dude," Sam says. "It doesn't matter."

But that's a fuckin' lie, even if Sam doesn't know it. Of course it fuckin' matters. Who the fuck would want this shit, this constant babysitting and brother-watching? Fuck.

Dean lowers himself down onto the chair, lets his cane drop with a clatter.

"We should get going," he says, finds his cigarettes on the ground, in the folds of his t-shirt. "Start the rounds."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, and Dean mouths a cigarette from the pack, gropes for his lighter. The first drag goes down sweet and glorious, and for a moment he just sits there and smokes, Sam watching him, elbows on his long knees, damp hair in his eyes.

"Eat some more peanut butter," Sam says suddenly, and Dean snorts.

"Can I finish this first, grandma?"

"If you must."

Dean huffs a laugh, takes a drag and squints up towards the sky as a cloud rolls over the bright sun, dims everything down. He swears the temperature drops like ten degrees.

Sam starts to struggle back into his shirt, and Dean leans forward, helps ease it down over his bad shoulder, helps him tug the sling into place.

"Jesus," Dean mutters, glancing around. "These people're gonna think we're crazy. I can't get out of a fuckin' pool on my own, and you can't put on a shirt."

"Hey. I can put it on – it's just easier if you help."

"Right," Dean says, pats him carefully on the shoulder, adjusts the sling. "'Course you can, Sammy."

Sam mock-frowns, and Dean can't help but grin at the petulant expression. With Sam's messed-up hair and crooked shirt, he looks about six years old, despite the giant bony knees poking out of his board shorts. Christ, those _knees. _

Dean takes a last, regretful drag of his cigarette and puts his own shirt on, chilly now that the sun's been hidden.

"Peanut butter," Sam orders, and Dean accepts the jar, sucks a lump of the sticky stuff off his finger, grimaces.

"Y're not theriouth about thith, right?" he asks thickly, wishing he had a glass of milk.

"It's this or cod liver oil," Sam says. "Or you could, you know, eat like a normal person."

"Mmmf," Dean promises, swallows as best he can. "Leth go."

:::

The superintendent, Mike, is a short, pudgy middle-aged fellow with a kind face, bad eczema, and a lisping manner reminiscent of an old woman. He doesn't mind that Sam and Dean are still damp from the pool, just ushers them inside and offers them a seat while they read and sign the waver, thanks them for remembering.

"The Finklesteins told me they were subletting out for a week," he says, leaning against his kitchen counter. "Must say, I'm surprised they rented to such young tenants."

"It took some convincing," Sam says ruefully, eyes darting over the sheet of paper. He deems it harmless and signs his name carefully, passes it to Dean.

"How long you been running this place?" Dean asks casually, pretending to peruse the waiver.

"Oh, about ten years now. I'm the owner, too, you know. Originally, it was just an apartment building like any other, for the first year anyway – don't quite know how it happened, but seniors, they talk, I guess, and before I knew it, bam. Practically running a retirement home."

"Oh," Dean says. "So you didn't intend it to be so… full of the elderly?"

"Can't say I did," Mike admits. "Not that I mind. And they're not all seniors – I'd say about sixty percent is over sixty. The rest, well, we've got some families, a few bachelors, quite a number of single women, actually. No one as young as you two, however."

"Huh," Dean says, trying to figure out the best way to ask his next question. "Everything run pretty smoothly, round here?"

"More or less."

"We, uh, we heard about…"

"Yes, well, there's that," Mikesays with a wince. "Goodness, what a tragedy. Horrible, horrible. I can hardly think about it without…" he shudders.

"We're so sorry," Sam puts it. "Did you know … that is, were you close with the… the… those who died?"

"Close? Well, I knew them. Knew them quite well. All had been living here for at least three years. Fixed their pipes, their windows, saw them often enough. Horrible, horrible."

"Were they all seniors?" Dean asks.

"No – Emmet, the fellow who passed just last night, he was rather a young man. Late thirties, somewhere thereabouts. He had a hard life, that one."

"Oh?" Sam says, trying his best to sound curious and trustworthy, but not _too _curious.

"Yes, poor man. He broke his back a few years ago in a terrible car accident, paralyzed from the waist down. That's why he moved in here, we have so many apartments with facilities for the disabled." He makes an awkward gesture towards Dean.

"That's awful," Sam says honestly. "Must have been hard."

"I imagine it was. Oh, but he was so good-natured! Took what life dealt him, and made the best of it." Mike'sface blanches, eyes growing moist. "Until, that is… oh, horrible, horrible. I never would have… if I had known… he didn't seem the type, but then, they say that most comedians are terribly depressed. But really, he was so full of life…" Mikedabs at his eyes, then forces his face into a smile. "Oh, look at me, depressing you like this. I'm sorry."

"No, please," Dean says. "It's not depressing at all – we're very interested."

Sam shoots him a dirty look, and Dean realizes belatedly that it was kind of a creepy thing to say. Oh well.

"Yes," Mikesniffs. "Anyway."

They recognize their cue to leave, and Dean reaches for his cane, pushes himself to his feet with a wince as Sam hands Mikethe waiver.

"Thanks very much," Sam says.

"Oh, no, no. Any problems, come and talk to me. The Finklesteins gave you my number, I assume?"

"Yes," Sam assures him. "We'll give you a call."

In the elevator Sam runs a thoughtful hand through his hair, turns to his brother. "You know," he says hesitantly. "So far, it doesn't sound that suspicious to me. I mean… it's not supernatural, really, that he would… you know. I mean… you hear about… it's hard, that kind of… thing."

"Maybe," Dean says. "But we're not gonna draw any conclusions 'til we get the skinny on the others. Plenty of people go through shit like that and _don't _kill themselves. So for now, we operate under the assumption that something forced his paralyzed ass up and over the balcony."

"Jesus," Sam cringes. "A little tact, you think?"

"Right, right, sorry. His paralyzed _tucas_."

Sam changes quickly once they're back in their apartment. His hair is still slightly damp and smelling of chlorine, but he'll shower later. When he pulls his jeans up off the pink carpet on his bedroom floor, the flask he bought earlier thunks down from the folds of the denim, and it's in his hand with the cap unscrewed before he really thinks about it.

He glances around to make sure Dean hasn't somehow managed to sneak up behind him, then takes a swig, feels the liquor burn a path down his throat and into his stomach. A part of him knows that it's not good, drinking on a job, and it's definitely not good that he's hiding it from his brother, seems to find himself doing a lot of that, lately… and for a moment he feels a little guilty, nervous – but then the overwhelming feeling is just _relief. _They're not hunting, they're just talking to some people, doing some research, so it's not as if he needs his reflexes to be razor-sharp… and he's just so fucking tense, his back in knots.

He settles himself down on the bed, pushing aside a giant train-shaped pillow – definitely the grandkid's room – and takes another sip, relaxes a little. He can hear his brother rustling around in the next room, can hear the muffled curse as something thumps to the floor. He'll hear the balcony door open, he thinks. So it's all right to just sit here for a moment, take some time.

He drinks again, wonders if he'll still have time to make fettuccini alfredo – because he bought the ingredients, and it's been so long since he's stood in a real kitchen in front of a stove, lost himself in chopping and stirring. He likes cooking, he discovered at Stanford. Dean had done most of the cooking when they were growing up, whenever they were staying in a place with a decent kitchen, which admittedly was somewhat rare. Sam had known vaguely at the time that his brother had actually become quite a _good _cook, and he wonders idly if Dean had continued cooking after he'd left, cooked just for himself and John. Sam doubts it, somehow.

He takes another gulp of whiskey, realizes that if he has much more, on top of the two beers he had by the pool, he's in danger of passing the sober threshold. But it doesn't seem like that bad of an idea, somehow. They're still kind of on vacation, aren't they? And it's – he checks his cellphone – almost three thirty. Already early evening. And he's been snapping at his brother lately, he knows he has, because Dean is fucking _infuriating… _but this, he reasons, this might help mellow him out so he's gentler with Dean. Make things easier for both of them. He raises the bottle again.

:::

Marcella answers the door right after the first knock, almost as if she'd been standing directly behind it, waiting for visitors.

"Oh, look!" she exclaims to no one. "It's the two young men from the Finklesteins'!"

"Hello," Sam says, gives her his most winning smile. "You said we could come by, if—"

"Oh, of _course, _please, come in! Let's get you off your feet, poor thing," she says, addressing Dean, who bites back his annoyance and allows her to lead them into a small, well-decorated living room. If Dean were pressed, like, at gunpoint, he'd say it was more of a _parlor, _really, with dark wood and silk-upholstered furniture, the walls covered with photographs in tasteful, gilded frames.

"Sit, sit," she says, and Dean and Sam sink down onto the rose-patterned sofa, Dean setting his cane to rest against the glass-topped coffee table. "My husband will be so sorry he missed you, he's at a proctologists appointment and then he's having dinner with a few friends."

"Shame," Dean says, stretches his leg out a bit.

"You've got a lovely home," Sam says politely.

"Yes," Marcella agrees. "Are you boys hungry? I've got some pie. I could pretend it's homemade, if you like, but really I bought it just this morning. Cherry. It's quite good."

"Oh, yeah, please," Dean says with enthusiasm, ignores Sam's incredulous gaze.

"You, Sam?" she asks.

"Sure. Thanks very much."

"Lovely!"

She bustles out of the room, and Sam says, "Pie. Jesus, I'm a fucking idiot. Here I am, plying you with peanut butter, and all it takes is _pie. _Clearly."

"What?" Dean says defensively. "I'm hungry, that's all."

"Hungry for _pie._"

"Hungry for pie," Dean agrees, and Sam snorts, flops back onto the cushions. Dean looks at him for a moment. His brother's eyes seem overbright, his mannerisms just a bit off. Too – exaggerated. Messy. "You all right, dude?" Dean asks.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"I dunno. You're just—" but his attention is captured by Marcella, who's come back laden with two china plates heaped high with flaky, glistening cherry pie.

"Awesome," Dean breathes, feels like he actually wantsto eat something voluntarily for the first time in a long damn time. Why didn't _he _think of pie? The cure for all man's ills; the answer to world peace; the food to end all foods; the sweetest note in the – fuck_, _this is good pie.

He pauses for a moment in his ravenous demolishment of the defenseless pastry and realizes that Marcella is talking to Sam, realizes that Sam is sitting up politely while he is hunched over his plate like a cro-magnon. Dean straightens, does his best to look interested, though really he's just trying to figure out how best to finagle a second piece of when he's done with this one.

"—and then I said, it's a shame you don't have your own vacuum cleaner, because mine's been clogged with pennies. I hate pennies, so useless, not like the old days when you could at least buy yourself a peppermint or one of those nasty sticky toffee-things. Now penny candy costs a quarter, at least."

"That's true," Sam says. "I bought a Snickers bar the other day, and it was a dollar thirty."

"Scandal!" Marcella shrieks.

"So," Dean says, licking a streak of filling from his thumb. "Have you lived here long?"

"Going on six years," she says proudly. "Since I was a young spring chicken of sixty-eight."

"We were sorry to hear about the recent tragedies," Sam says.

"Oh, my," Marcella says, flutters a thin hand to her cardigan-clad breast. "_Dreadful, _isn't it? I've always said, suicide is the most selfish, vulgar thing a person could do."

Dean isn't sure if that's quite how he himself would describe it, but he nods anyway. "They must have been very unhappy."

"I suppose they were," she says. "Well, you know, poor Emmet I can understand – he was a man in the prime of his life, cut down by fate_._" She makes a dramatic slicing movement.

"Right, Mike told us about him," Dean says.

"Of course _you _would understand better than any of us, poor dear," Marcella says, reaches over from her armchair and gingerly pats Dean on his good leg. "How awful it must be, to be cut down by fate." She performs the same slicing movement.

"Uh—"

"But do you know, I don't think losing his ability to walk was the worst part." She raises her nearly-invisible eyebrows and bites her lip.

"No?"

"No. The worst part…" she lowers her voice. "He couldn't _perform. _You know what I mean, don't you, dear?"

"Oh," Dean says. "Christ. I mean – that's—"

"I assume you retain those capabilities?"

Dean splutters for a moment, trying to think of an inoffensive answer, settles stupidly on, "I'm not paralyzed."

"Oh, I know that. But, you know," she waves an airy hand, "things in that… vicinity… are often connected."

"Hm," Dean says, takes a bite of pie, which somehow isn't quite as delicious as it was a moment ago, before his freakin' manhood was called into question.

"So, the other people – they didn't seem to have any reason to … do it?" Sam asks, trying inelegantly to steer the conversation back.

"Jane and Marlon? Besides being somewhat irritating, Jane didn't seem particularly unhappy to me," Marcella says, tapping her lip. "Though, they say she, you know," she makes the universal gesture for _drink. _"Was a bit too fond of her wine."

"Was she … retired?" Sam asks.

"If you're politely asking me was she old, the answer is yes. Older than I am, I think – or at least, she looked older, if I do say so myself. Horrible dye job, this sickly red that just washed her face right out. Of course, godforbid I speak ill of the dead." Marcella shakes her head. "But Marlon," she says, and Dean allows himself a moment of admiration for this woman, who talks so damn much they barely have to poke her and information pops out like a Pez dispenser. He loves people like this; they save him and Sam so much trouble.

"Marlon," Marcella is saying, "he was something else. Lovely man. Used to be a librarian, he told me, before his knees gave way. Double knee replacement, double, can you believe that? Imagine how much metal must have been in those legs. I knocked on it after he got the first one, but it sounded just like a knee, to me."

"And he didn't seem depressed?"

"I never thought so. Always appeared to be in good spirits. But good spirits can mask any number of ills."

"That's true," Sam says, and Dean nods gravely.

"Who was the first?" Sam asks.

"Jane. And then Marlon, and then poor Emmet."

Dean feels a wave of sympathy towards Emmet, who must have been poor-deared even more often than Dean.

"And—" Sam tries, but is interrupted by Dean's phone trilling a loud alarm in his pocket. All three of them jump.

"Oops," Dean says, reaches down to turn it off, goes for his cane. "Where do you keep your glasses, Marcella?" he asks. "I could use some water."

"Oh," she says, starts to get to her feet, "let me, please, I—"

"No, no," Dean says, flaps a hand at her and pushes himself to his feet as fast as he can. "I'm fine, really."

"If you're sure… Well, they're in the cupboard on the right-hand side of the sink."

"Thanks."

Dean heads to the kitchen, finds the cups without too much trouble. He leans his good hip against the counter and takes a ziploc baggie with some Vicodin out from his pocket, shakes two out and swallows them down with a gulp of water. He's been trying to be more regular about taking his meds, less on a need-based agenda and more on a four-hour cycle, and it seems to be working out all right. If the pain gets too bad between doses, he can always take the Actiq.

He heads back into the living room where Sam and Marcella seem to be discussing the nutritional value of grapefruit, pauses for a moment to examine the photos on the wall. Grandkid after smiling grandkid, gap-toothed, blond-haired, every last one of them looking like a model for Baby J-Crew. Then his eyes travel a little further, and he sees a long line of photographs that travel down the wall and culminate in a small table with a few strange items and a bowl of flowers. He knows immediately, with an instinct born from years of watching other people's grief, that he's looking at a memorial.

He can't help himself, steps a little closer to look at the pictures. A good-looking kid, must have been her grandson. Young, early twenties, maybe, in an Army uniform, looks like Air Force, the wings on his chest. The table holds a matchbox car, a lock of what must be his hair, a bundle of cloth that Dean can't figure out, and a few other knickknacks that have his fingers tightening around his cane in sympathy.

"That's my Steven," Marcella says suddenly, from the armchair, and Dean glances over, sees her watching him.

"I'm sorry," Dean says.

"It was November. He was due to come home in just a few weeks. Cut down by fate. So cruel."

Dean comes back to the sofa, settles in beside Sam as Sam squints at the photographs across the room. "That's terrible," he says. "What a tragedy."

Is it Dean's imagination, or is Sam speaking strangely, slower and more precise than normal? Almost like he's trying not to stumble over his words.

"Yes," Marcella agrees, and heartbreak is scrawled across her face, clear as day. It makes Dean uncomfortable to see, that kind of raw grief, and he looks down.

"So, how many grandchildren do you have?" Sam asks, and Dean, not for the first time, gives his little brother a mental hug for always knowing how to handle this kind of thing, because Marcella's face brightens a bit, and she launches into a description of her six "little angels."

Dean lets the conversation wash over him, picks at the hem of his t-shirt, wonders how rude it would be on a scale of one to ten if he excused himself for a smoke. Marcella's gotta have a balcony; from what he's seen, her apartment is laid out exactly like the Finklesteins'.

"Hey," Sam says, reaches over his brother's lap to put a hand on Dean's good knee, and Dean realizes he's been bouncing it up and down, rattling the coffee table.

"Sorry," Dean says, makes an effort to relax. But seriously, cigarette, _now. _

"Dean," Sam says, "have you taken your meds?"

Dean's just about to say yes, when he catches something on Sam's face. "Uh, no?" he tries.

"_Dean,_" Sam admonishes, and Dean could kiss him, because he recognizes this for what it is – an exit strategy. "I'm sorry," Sam says to Marcella. "We really have to be going. My brother here doesn't know what's good for him. He's way overdue on his meds."

Dean would feel a bit humiliated, _used, _but he's too busy being happy to get out of there. "Thanks for the pie," he says. "It was," what's that old-person word? "lovely."

"Oh, come back anytime," she says. "I always have pie. And you could do with some fattening up."

Sam looks smug for the three seconds until she turns to him and says, "You too, darling, oh my. With that height, and that hair – you don't want to look like a scarecrow, do you?"

"Uh," Sam says, and Dean begins mentally practicing the many insulting ways he could use the word _scarecrow._

They head back to their apartment, right down the hall, and Dean immediately goes for the balcony. Sam follows, leans against the railing while Dean lowers himself into the chaise lounge and fishes the pack of smokes from his pocket.

"Could you not do that?" Dean asks, gesticulating with his unlit cigarette. "With all these people falling off of balconies… I'd rather you keep away from the edge, if you don't mind."

Sam obligingly steps away, flops gracelessly into a cross-legged position on the ground. "I don't get it," he says as Dean lights up. "I don't see a pattern yet. We've got a young paralyzed guy, a bitchy old lady, and an ex-librarian. Any of them could have feasibly just … killed themselves with no help."

"The same way?" Dean asks, takes a drag and shakes his head. "It's weird, Sam. Too fuckin' weird. I know you want a vacation, but we're not just gonna write this one off."

Sam shrugs loosely. "I mean, yeah. We'll keep going. I'm just sayin'…" He shrugs again, and Dean squints at him. He'd expected Sam to be a bit more bristly.

"Dude," he says slowly, watches Sam roll his head back on his shoulders, gaze up at the sky. "How much did you drink, down by the pool?"

Sam looks up, a little too quickly. "I had a couple beers. You saw me. Why?"

"That's it? Just those two beers?"

"Yes, Dean." Sam glares at him. "Are you accusing me of something?"

Dean puffs his cigarette nervously. "No. You just seem…"

"So, I guess I'll make dinner tonight," Sam says.

Dean blinks at the rapid subject change. "Uh—"

"I mean, it's too late to hit the library. And I asked Marcella, and she said she thinks I'll be able to hop onto the Simpkins' wireless connection. They're right next door. Actually," Sam says, climbing to his feet, "I'll try it now."

"Sam—"

"Don't fall overboard," Sam says, and Dean catches his wry smile before he's sliding open the glass door and shutting it gently on Dean's face.

Sam Winchester, ladies and gentleman. More of a mystery than three unexplained balcony-soaring suicides in the same building.

Jesus fuckin' christ.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **I am so sorry for the delay in updating! Real life has been CRAZY and I've had very little time to write. This chapter was supposed to be longer, too, but I felt bad for making you wait so long and figured I'd just post what I had. So, more plot next chapter. Guh.

And! I have been horrible at responding to comments, like unforgivably horrible, but my computer's all messed up and with the crazy and, I'm sorry. I've been reading them and I appreciate them all so very, very, very much and I love you all. I will straighten my life out and become a better communicator very soon, I promise.

xxx

When Dean comes in from smoking, Sam is seated at the kitchen table, laptop propped open in front of him, leaning back with a green apple in his good hand.

"We got wireless from the neighbors," Sam says through a mouthful of fruit. "I feel kinda bad, hopping on like this, but…" he shrugs, swallows, puts the apple down and wipes his hand on his jeans, gestures for Dean to come sit next to him. "Check this out."

Dean sinks warily into the chair beside Sam, props his cane up on the table and leans forward to see what his brother's found, thinking maybe he's got something on the history of the building site, or he's called up the police records somehow. He squints at the picture on the screen.

It's a big photograph of some kind of spaghetti. With peas.

"Sam," Dean says, as Sam chomps on the apple again.

"I figure, why make alfredo when we can have carbonara? We've got all the ingredients, it'll be great, I just have to—"

"Dude, you think maybe you could use the pilfered wireless for something a little more productive?"

Sam glowers at him, face slightly flushed, eyes glassy and just the tiniest bit unfocused – and suddenly Dean can't just turn away and play dumb, because he recognizes that look, that vague dulling of Sam's usually knife-sharp gaze_. _He recognizes it and he knows what it means, knows what causes it, stares as Sam snaps, "Eat an apple."

"Christ, what does—"

"Two spoonfuls of peanut butter, a piece of pie," Sam ticks off on his fingers, stands and stalks over to the fridge. "That's what you've eaten today. You're not six, Dean, you have to eat something real once in a while." He yanks open the crisper.

"Catch," Sam says, and Dean narrowly misses getting brained by a gigantic Granny Smith. He stares at it stupidly while his brother comes back over, plops into the chair and cracks a beer, takes a long swig while Dean transfers his glare from the apple to his brother.

"Okay," he says, anger roiling up in him like lava, anger that's fueled by something deeper, something that tastes almost like fear. "You wanna play the tally game? Fine, let's fuckin' play. Let's tally how much you've had to drink today, Sam, huh? How about that?"

Sam blanches behind the spots of red on his cheeks, and Dean does his best not to look away, because _jesus, _he's right, he knew he was right from the moment it first occurred to him out on the balcony, but goddammit, he wanted so badly to be wrong.

"The fuck are you talking about?" Sam snaps dismissively, but he won't meet Dean's eyes.

"Sam," Dean says, clamps a hand on his brother's knee when Sam tries to get up. "Sit the fuck down. Swear to god, I will knock you out if I have to."

Sam jerks his knee out from under Dean's hand, but he doesn't stand, just pushes his chair as far from his brother as he can. "I don't know what the hell you're trying to accuse me of, but—"

"I'm not accusing you," Dean says hotly, though, yeah, he _is. _ "I just – dude, _I_ bought you your first six-pack; I cleaned you up the first time you puked; I ran interference for Dad when the math team dragged you home in tenth grade after you drank a freakin' handle of tequila — so don't you try to fuckin' bullshit me. I _know _when you've been drinking, Sam, and I can tell the fuckin' difference between two beers and _more _than two beers. And right now — right now? — I'm not lookin' at two beers."

"Dean," Sam says, and now he does stand, starts to back away as Dean grapples for his cane, pushes himself upwards. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Sam, if you've been—" Dean finds his footing, searches for words. He's out of his depth here, he can feel it, has uncapped a big jar of nasty and it's too late to twist the lid back on. "Tell me. Tell me how much you've had to drink today."

"You _saw _me, dude, you were with me the whole—"

"Don't you fuckin' _lie _to me!" Dean doesn't mean for it to come out so goddamn loud, means to keep his cool, but fuck if he feels anything like _cool _right now. "Sam," he says, makes an effort to gentle his voice, can't really. "I'm not fucking around, here. I know you've been drinking. I'm not asking you _if. _I'm asking you how much."

"Where the hell do you get off monitoring me?" Sam asks, makes a convulsive gesture like he's gonna shove his brother, and Dean realizes he's backed Sam into the corner of the kitchen.

"Since you started acting like maybe you need it," Dean retorts. "I'm not gonna be _mad _at you, man —"_ I'm gonna be fuckin' furious _" — but if you're hiding this shit? Then we have a problem."

"A _problem_?" Sam says incredulously. "Dean, okay, so maybe I had a few drinks without telling you, but I wasn't _hiding _it. I just knew you'd get like this, I knew you'd—"

" 'Get like this'? Sam, it's four forty-five in the afternoon and you're _drunk, _drunk while we're working a fucking job, and dude, you've _been _drunk for weeks. You've been drinking too fuckin' much, man, and you've been drinking alone, in secret, which, I'm sorry, sure seems like you're fuckin' hiding something, and, swear to god, I never thought I'd be the one to say this, but we need to talk about this shit, man."

Sam opens his mouth, closes it, and Dean wants to turn away from the anger and hurt and fear he sees flash through Sam's eyes, wants to turn from the way his own stomach clenches in response. Then Sam moves forward almost reflexively, tries to push past Dean, sidestep him, but Sam's moving too fast, is too clumsy, and he smacks into Dean's bad right side, knocks the cane out of his brother's hand with a clatter. Dean stumbles briefly at the loss of support, hands flailing out to find a hold in Sam's shirt, and Dean takes the opportunity to slam his brother up against the countertop hard enough to leave a bruise, ignores the pained gasp.

"Don't," Dean growls. "Don't." He gives Sam another little shake, hand still fisted in his shirt, as much for balance as anything else. "Tell me you understand what I'm saying. _Please_, Sam. Tell me you get where I'm coming from on this."

There's a long pause, Dean's heart up in his throat, because if Sam doesn't admit to this, then _fuck, _they really do have a big fuckin' problem. But Sam licks his lips, closes his eyes briefly, like he's in pain.

"Okay," he says, and Dean's shoulders relax just a little from where they'd been tight up by his ears. "You're right. You're right, I shouldn't have tried to … but dude, you're being too dramatic. I was just…" he waves a hand, looks around like someone's gonna step forward and help him out. "I was just stressed," he finishes lamely. "Didn't want you to, you know_. _This."

"It's not just today," Dean says, 'cause he's not gonna let Sam off the hook, not now that he's got the ball rolling. "Like I said, you've been drinking too much, period. And I know," he says quickly, cutting his brother off at the pass, "I know, I'm one to talk, but Sam. It's _every _day. You think I haven't noticed?"

Sam is silent and Dean presses, "Dude, have _you _noticed?"

"I don't know," Sam says finally. "Not — I don't know. It wasn't – intentional – I — " he stops, shakes his head, presses a hand to his eyes. "Dude, can we – can we not? You're making me feel… I don't even know. Like I'm – I don't know."

Dean realizes he's still gripping Sam's shirt and drops his hand to grope for the edge of the countertop, leans on that. Takes a deep breath, wants to comfort his brother, because Sam doesn't look angry anymore, just tired, a little scared. Scared of Dean or of something else, Dean doesn't know, but he has no idea what to say, doesn't know what the situation calls for, doesn't know what the situation _is_. The tide of need-to-know fury has abated, left him stranded and dry-mouthed.

"Sam," he says finally. "It's not a big deal, man. It's just — don't drink so much. Right? I mean…" he fumbles for words. "Are you… can you… is this gonna be an issue?"

"I'm not a freakin' _alcoholic_," Sam spits, shakes hair angrily out of his eyes. "I appreciate the intervention, Dean, but no, this isn't gonna be an _issue._"

"Okay," Dean says, ignores the venom in Sam's tone. "Okay, well, good."

They're still for a moment, Sam looking at the ground, Dean looking at Sam, and then Sam sighs, leans down to pick up Dean's cane. "I'm sorry," he says.

Dean takes it, transfers his weight from the countertop, ignores the twinge of pain his hip sends down his leg. "It's fine."

"We still need to get you a pair of crutches. Tomorrow, maybe."

"It's fine," Dean repeats, flexes his hand on his cane, needs a cigarette _bad _but doesn't want to invite any accusations of hypocrisy. He isn't sure the fight is over, isn't even sure that it's a fight they've just had.

Sam sits down at the kitchen table again, in front of the computer and the photograph of creamy pasta. He reaches for his open beer reflexively, then freezes, drops his hand, doesn't look at Dean.

"Carbonara," Sam says dully. "It's got bacon. You'll like it."

Dean's stomach turns, can't really think about eating anything right now, but he nods, comes to sit across from his brother. His leg is killing him all of a sudden, like his rush of anger burned out the effects of the drugs, and he breathes into the pain, thinks maybe it's his body trying to provide a distraction from the twist in his gut. When the fuck did his life turn into a fucking soap opera?

He checks his watch. Two hours till his next dose. Awesome. He shifts in his chair, hip spiking a lighting-bolt of pain that curls his lip a little. He's gonna need the Actiq, all the way in his bedroom, fuck. He can't believe there was a time in his life when he refused painkillers, a time when he thought they were for wimps or some such macho shit. Now? Bring them _on. _

"After dinner I'll see what I can find out about the history of the building," Sam says, almost to himself. "Tomorrow we'll hit the library if we need to. Talk to some more people. See if we can get into the victims' apartments – maybe we can even do that later this evening."

Dean begins to agree, but his throat gets caught on _Okay _and when he tries to clear it he ends up in a full-body coughing fit instead, shoulders shaking, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Sam jumps up to get him water, presses the glass into his hand like a peace offering, then stares at him with a look of reproach.

"Don't say it," Dean groans, when he can speak. "Just cook your fuckin' pasta."

"I'm gonna need you to do the chopping," Sam says, wiggles the fingers of his slinged hand. "Garlic and onions. Think you can handle it?"

"Sure," Dean says. "Just gimme a minute." He pushes himself up, catches the wince a moment too late.

Sam gives him the hawk-eye. "You all right?"

"Fine," Dean says, waves him off. Even fuckin' drunk, Sam's too goddamn observant.

"You need something?"

"No," Dean says, then changes his mind as he takes a couple steps towards the door, because fuck it, he doesn't feel like hauling himself the twenty feet to his bedroom. "Yeah. You mind grabbing that lollipop shit?"

"In your room?"

"Top of the bureau."

Sam nods, disappears, and Dean shuffles over to the drawers to rummage around for a good chopping knife, leans up against the counter for a second and closes his eyes. Fuck, he needs a cigarette, but so far pride is winning out over craving. Especially after that lovely coughing display, he doesn't want to give Sam the satisfaction of sanctimony.

Sam reappears, wordlessly tosses Dean the box of Actiq, and Dean tugs one out, unwraps it and nestles it in his cheek, thanks god for the doctor that gave him this stuff, because it's fast and effective, and he's got too much to think about right now without pain making his brain sluggish.

Sam starts pulling ingredients out of the fridge and Dean lowers himself gingerly back down by the kitchen table, takes the garlic Sam hands him and begins peeling the crinkly skin, piles them neatly by the cutting board that Sam sets down for him.

He hears a sizzle as Sam begins laying out rashers of bacon in a pan, and he grimaces, tries to remember a time when this smell was appetizing, but he draws a blank, even though he knows he fucking _loves _bacon. Sam's right, he's gotta make more of an effort, force-feed himself and maybe his appetite will level itself out, go back to normal.

He sucks on his lollipop and presses the heel of his hand down on the muscle above his kneecap, tries to knead out some of the tension, wishes the silence between him and Sam didn't feel so… silent.

They don't talk as Dean scrapes the chopped onions and garlic into the bowl Sam hands him, don't talk as Sam heats up a pan of cream and butter and shakes a box of fettuccini into a pot of boiling water. And that's fine, they're together all the goddamn time and don't need to be jawing one another's ear off every second, but this is that strange kind of silence that feels like they're both trying to come up with something to say, and failing miserably.

Dean leans back in his chair, watches Sam stir the pot with a look of fierce, squint-eyed concentration that reminds Dean yet again that his brother's not exactly sober. Like he needed reminding.

But it's okay. They talked about it, and it's over. Right? That's what happens when you talk about shit, it magically disappears. Right?

Right. There's a reason Dean thinks therapy is a bunch of crap.

He grits his teeth, tries not to think about the hiss of a Zippo or the crackle of burning paper, the taste of tobacco… he's got to set a good fucking example for his little brother, at least right now.

As if reading his mind, Sam says, "From now on, how about you stay off the balcony alone."

"Sam—"

"It's just not a good idea. Not till we know what this thing's pattern is. Or at least until we know whether or not it's a thing."

"Fine. You either, then."

"Yeah, 'cause I'm the one who's out there forty times a day."

Dean sighs. "Anything else you need me to do?"

"No. The recipe's pretty easy. Almost done."

"Kinda early for dinner, isn't it?"

"It's almost six."

"Guess I'm just not used to the sun still out," Dean says, looking through the tiny window above the sink, slow, dusty rays shining down through the smudged glass.

Sam doesn't reply, busy straining pasta, and Dean leans back in his chair, absently massaging his leg. All those fucking painkillers aren't really killing anything but his reflexes, and he can feel the damaged muscle of his thigh jumping every so often, a twitch that threatens to segway into a full-blown cramp, which would be fuckin' _perfect. _

He's so goddamn sick of thinking about himself and his fucking fucked-up body; sometimes he wishes he could just rip himself apart and get the hell _out._

"Dean," Sam says, and Dean looks up. "Can you pour the pasta into the strainer?"

The steam is hot, almost scalds his hands as he tips the big pot over the sink, but it feels kind of good, and Dean thinks suddenly of the whirlpool tub, wonders if it would help his leg any. Maybe after dinner. Although he'll never hear the fuckin' end of it from his brother.

He leans against the counter, watches as Sam one-handedly cracks two eggs, which is kind of impressive. No eggshells or anything. He tosses the pasta with the sauce and the bacon and some frozen peas, stirs.

"Let's eat in the living room," Dean says, thinking of cushions, putting his leg up.

"And give you the chance to ruin their furniture? I've seen the way you eat, dude. Not taking any chances here."

Dean grins a little despite himself. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Finklestein, but my brother spilled pasta a la carburetor all over your pretty flowered couch."

"Carbonara," Sam corrects. "A la carburetor, gross. How about you make yourself useful and set the table?"

Dean pushes himself off the counter, grabs two forks and a couple plates and plonks them down on the table.

"Set."

"Napkins."

"Already there. But I could dig out our nice lace tablecloth, if you want. I think it's in the duffle with the guns."

"That would be lovely," Sam says primly, and Dean snorts.

He hovers over the table for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to sit down, but, christ –

"I got time for a cigarette before we eat?"

"Yeah," Sam says, sets down his wooden spoon. "It's supposed to sit for a minute, anyway. Let the eggs cook."

He follows Dean out through his bedroom and to the balcony, takes a seat with his back against the iron railings while Dean lowers himself onto the chair, presses his lips together to forestall any noises he might make.

"Your leg's really buggin' you," Sam states.

"It's been hanging around you too long," Dean says. "You're giving it ideas."

Sam laughs a little and Dean grins around the filter of his cigarette, bends his head to get it lit. Takes a long drag, breathes smoke out into the evening air, eyelids fluttering closed for a moment. Hallelujah_, _praise the lord for nicotine. He takes another drag, glances at Sam, who's watching him, face unreadable.

"Want one?" Dean asks.

Sam gives him a disgusted look. "What would you do if I said yes?"

"Toss you off the balcony."

Sam shakes his head, shaggy hair glinting in the fading light. The sun is bright, hovering just above the skyline of the city, orange limning the edges of the clouds as it prepares to descend.

A pigeon darts past the balcony and Dean wishes for a moment that they could trade places, fear of heights be damned, just soar off into that hazy sky and let the city get small below him.

He flicks ash, pulls smoke into his lungs and sighs it out, watches Sam pick at his shoelace, knees pulled up to his chin. He wants to say something, wants to reach out and put his hand on his little brother's head, tell him something wise and soothing.

"You need a fuckin' haircut," is what he comes up with.

"Yeah," Sam says.

"I'll do it after dinner, if you want."

"All right."

Dean stubs out his cigarette, hesitates, hand hovering over his pack.

"Pasta's ready by now," Sam says, climbs to his feet, and Dean reluctantly pockets the smokes, reaches out to take Sam's offered hand and pull himself into a painful stand, takes a second to breathe before following his brother into the house.

The kitchen smells good, Dean has to admit, and he feels his stomach grumble. Body hungry, even if his brain isn't.

"Here," Sam says, passes Dean a gigantic plate of pasta. "Take this into the living room. Just be careful, okay?"

"You sure?"

"Yeah, it's more comfortable in there, anyway."

Dean's not gonna argue, just accepts the plate and heads for the couch. He settles his dinner on the coffee table and works his boots off, gets his leg up on the sofa, wedges a cushion under his knee, and is trying to find a comfortable position for his hip when Sam comes in, plate, fork, and beer all precariously clutched in his good hand.

He sits down in the armchair, puts his food on the coffee table next to his brother's, picks up the bottle of beer and looks at Dean.

"So, are you gonna freak out at me if I drink this?"

Dean just looks at him. What the hell is he supposed to say to that, exactly? He can't tell Sam what to do, can't order him around like he's seven anymore, and Sam must be trying to make a point – but what that point is, Dean isn't sure. Is it, _Look, this is normal, beer with dinner, nothing to worry about_? Or is it _You're not the boss of me, nyah nyah nyah_? Or maybe Sam just wants a beer. Needs a drink. Fuck if Dean knows.

So, finally, he says, "You're callin' the shots, dude," and Sam opens the bottle.

Dean can feel his nostrils flare but he doesn't say anything, just picks up his plate, examines Sam's creation, takes a bite. Takes another.

"Hey," he says. "Sam. This is really fuckin' good."

"Told you," Sam says, but he's smiling big, pride dancing over his face like he's just brought home an A+ on his science project.

Dean finishes the whole damn thing, even though it's tough going at the end, and even though Sam gave his brother about twice as much as he gave himself, but Sam's grin is worth his stomach's astonished protests. Sam, for his part, eats three platefuls, starts talking about what he's gonna cook tomorrow night.

"Maybe chili," he muses, "in honor of the Lone Star State."

"Chili sounds good," Dean says, trying to decide if it's worth it to haul himself up and have a cigarette. He's pretty comfortable, propped up on the couch like this, and the thought of moving isn't too appealing. He took his Vicodin after finishing dinner – maybe he'll wait till that kicks in.

"So," Sam says, drains the last of his beer. "You wanna head out in a little while and see if we can check out the victims' apartments?"

Dean hesitates, doesn't want to admit that his leg's not really up for too much movement. "Sure."

"I'll clean up," Sam says. "They have a dishwasher, so I only need one hand."

"Okay," Dean says, watches Sam stack the plates. "How's your shoulder, by the way?"

"Doesn't hurt," Sam says. "A little sore in the mornings, that's all."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Mornings are a bitch."

Sam gives him a little smile and disappears into the kitchen.

Dean rubs his eyes, suddenly sleepy, the combination of pain and painkillers and worry and heavy food hitting him like a tranquilizer. He hears the clank of dishes in the next room, then hears the fridge open, hears a different sort of clank.

He raises his head, strains his ears, hears the drawer open, the clatter of metal. A sound that very well could be a bottle opener snapping the top off a bottle.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, lets his head flop back against the couch. What the hell is he supposed to do about this?

"Dean," Sam calls.

"What?"

"If I made baked apples, would you eat them? You need fruit."

"Sure, Sam," Dean calls back. Christ. Baked apples. _Keep drinkin', Sammy_. Maybe next he'll make pie.

He repositions the cushions a little, lowers himself down further and closes his eyes. The dull throb of his leg is almost soothing, a steady rhythmic pulse that follows the beat of his heart. The heady scent of cinnamon and heated sugar slowly fill the room, and all of a sudden baked apples don't sound so ridiculous. They sound kind of awesome.

"Dean," Sam calls in a few minutes later. "You want ice cream with this?"

But Dean doesn't answer. He's fast asleep, dreaming of the Texas sky and the steady beat of wings.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean wakes himself up with a loud groan, torn from sleep by the pain that's running its knife-sharp fingers up and down his leg, and for a moment he can do nothing but lie still and do his best to keep breathing as he tries to figure out where the fuck he is. He is expecting, bizarrely, to see clouds, but instead he peers out at a sunlit room, cheery yellow walls. He blinks at the fake flowers on the coffee table in front of him, tries to get his blurry eyes to focus.

Texas. Finklesteins. Living room.

Last thing he remembers, Sam was baking apples, which was probably around 8, which means he passed out right around the average bedtime of a two year-old child, which – embarrassing. He starts to push himself upright on the couch, realizes he's made a big fucking mistake – his hip shrieks a white-hot protest, and he gasps a little as his vision swims for a moment, stomach churns, and he has to lower himself back down, panting.

He needs drugs.

Drugs that are all the way across the living room and down the short hallway to his bedroom.

He mutters a curse and grits his teeth, makes a pretty decent attempt at pretending his leg doesn't feel like someone's trying to saw it off with a butter knife, and slowly grunts himself to an upright position, starts to work his legs down to the floor, but then can't help the little "ah-aahh" that escapes his lips, because fuck, it hurts like a sonovabitch.

He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, still half asleep. The pain, instead of waking him up, just makes him feel groggier, untethered to the ground, like he's gonna float away at any minute. Which really wouldn't be so bad, considering.

Suddenly, he hears the creak of a door and then a rustling noise, looks up as Sam pads into the living room, hair going in a million different directions, eyes squinted with sleep.

"You okay, dude?" Sam yawns, holding his unslinged bad arm to his chest. He's wearing his boxers and one of Dean's worn blue t-shirts, too small for him, a hand-me-down from an era when his big brother was actually bigger.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Sorry, I wake you up?"

"Hang on," Sam says blearily, as if Dean hasn't spoken, and he ducks out of the living room. Dean stares after him, is surprised when he reappears almost immediately, Dean's various meds in hand, including his "bone-density enhancers," which Dean hopes Sam will never google and discover that really they're anti-depressants.

"Hey," Dean says with heartfelt gratitude. "Thanks."

"Leg bad, huh?" Sam asks, handing them over.

"Mmm." Dean unwraps an Actiq and watches his brother's clumsy attempts to open the childproof cap on the Vicodin.

"I got it," Dean says, takes the bottle from him and twists the cap off easily, tips a couple pills into his palm, lets Sam fetch him a glass of water.

Sam slumps down into an armchair, eyes glazed and unfocused in a way that means he's not quite awake yet, and Dean lies back a little, sucks his lollipop, waits for the pain to creep away so he can start moving, get up and have a cigarette.

"I was gonna wake you up last night, send you to bed," Sam says. "But you looked so comfortable."

"I can't believe I fell asleep that early."

"Fourteen hours of sleep, man," Sam says. "It's like, ten o'clock."

"Jesus." He eyes his brother, notes the dark circles under Sam's eyes. "How late did you stay up?"

"Dunno," Sam says. "Not too late. Two? Three? Did some research on the building, the area. Nothin' weird as far as I can tell."

"Oh, shit," Dean says, remembering. "We were gonna check out the apartments last night."

"Don't worry. One of them's already sold, so we're gonna have to think of an excuse to pay the new owners a visit. But I say we start with the most recent victim, anyway. His apartment should be more or less in the state he left it – they can't clear a whole place out in just two days. We'll go after breakfast."

"Good call."

Sam yawns, stretches. "I'm gonna put that stupid sling on. Then I'm gonna make pancakes. And bacon."

"How'd the apples go?"

Sam grins, climbs to his feet. "Delicious. I ate yours. Sorry."

Dean flips him off as Sam leaves the room, then turns his attention to his leg, moves it a little, testing the mobility. The Actiq's kicking in, god bless, and he figures he can probably try and get up.

He bites his lip and grabs his cane, manages to push himself to his feet with the help of the couch arm and some strategic breathing, shuffles along past Sam's closed door into his bedroom. He scoops his pack of cigarettes off the bureau and heads outside.

The morning is cool, overcast with bright sun peeking through in places, and he leans up against the railing instead of sitting on the low chair, gets the weight off his leg and lights a cigarette, takes a long drag. He can hear the hum of passing cars below him, a woman's high-pitched laugh, some guy yelling something. He takes another drag, fixes his eyes on the flash of sun off a low-flying plane above him as it cuts through the overlay of clouds, wishes he was up there with it. Watches the smoke from his cigarette rise and blend with the grey of the sky.

"Dude!"

Dean jumps a little, turns his head so fast he gets a crick in the neck.

"Jesus, Sam! Scared the shit outta… I didn't even hear the door open."

"That's 'cause you didn't close it, dumbass." Sam shakes his head, looks more awake now than he did a few minutes ago. "What the hell are you doing?"

Dean raises an eyebrow, because, duh.

"Dean," Sam says slowly, face bizarrely tense. "You're afraid of heights."

Dean blinks. "So you came out here to make fun of me?"

"So, I have never seen you willingly lean on a railing like that. Dude, you usually won't even look over the edge. And you're not supposed to be on the balcony alone."

"Sam," Dean says, comprehension dawning. "I'm not gonna throw myself off the balcony. I'm not crazy."

"I didn't say you were crazy, I just—" Sam shakes his head. "Just, don't go out here alone, all right?"

Dean rolls his eyes, and Sam says, "_All right?_"

"Okay! Okay. Sorry. Yeesh."

Sam nods firmly, shivers a little in the cool air. "You almost done with that?"

Dean takes a drag, examines the half-smoked butt. "Not really."

Sam folds his arms as best he can with one immobile shoulder, watches his brother smoke with an aggrieved expression.

"Would you quit watching me?"

"Would you hurry up? I'm cold."

Dean flicks ash at him.

"Painkillers musta kicked in, huh," Sam says, an edge of sarcasm to his voice.

"Yeah," Dean says, lets out a heavy breath of smoke. "Miracles of modern science."

Sam sighs tiredly, and Dean takes pity on him, drops his cigarette and scuffs it carefully under the boot of his bad foot.

"Fine, Frosty. C'mon." He hooks his cane from where it's propped up beside him, can't help but wince a little as he gets his leg moving again. Hates how Sam's face softens as he watches, annoyance melting away in favor of pity. He gives Sam a pretty strong thwack on the back of the head as his brother passes, is rewarded by Sam's outraged "_Ow!_ You fuckin' jerk," and a punch to his shoulder that almost makes him lose his balance. That's better.

Dean sits at the kitchen table and flips idly through a copy of _Cosmo _that he finds underneath a bowl of fake fruit, while Sam brews coffee and sets some bacon to sizzle, starts cracking eggs into a bowl of pancake mix.

"You're not gonna make those from scratch?" Dean asks. "Tsk tsk. Bad wife. I want a divorce."

"Wife? That's great, coming from a guy who's reading an article on—" Sam peers over Dean's shoulder too quickly for Dean to slam the magazine closed "—_How to Chart Your Menstrual Flow._ Dude. Seriously?"

"Just tryin' to keep track of your bitchy-ass mood swings, Sammy."

"You'd think Mrs. Finklestein would be kinda old for that magazine. Jess used to love it."

"Yeah? Well, maybe it's for Mr. Finklestein." Dean keeps his tone light, because Sam's only just gotten to the point where he can slip Jess's name into casual conversation without a stutter.

Sam snorts, tosses eggshells into the trash, pauses and gives the can a strange look that Dean can't interpret. "I'm gonna take the garbage out," he announces.

"Where do we take it out to, exactly?"

"In the stairwell."

Dean watches, a little bemused, as Sam moves with purpose, gathers up the bag and hurries quickly out of the kitchen – but not before Dean hears the clink of glass.

Motherfucker. _That's _why his goddamn brother has such dark circles under his eyes. Dean almost starts to his feet, then forces himself down, fists balled. Tearing open a trash bag to try and find a couple bottles is really not going to do anything except create a big, dramatic scene. But what the _fuck._

Sam comes back in, smiles too broadly. "Looks like the coffee's done."

Dean accepts his cup with a tight, "Thanks," glares at his brother's back as if he can laser-zap some sense into him.

"You gonna take a shower?" Sam asks.

"No," Dean says, because it's decided: he's not leaving his brother alone in a room with alcohol, not until they straighten this thing out a little. Whatever this _thing _is.

Christ, he really needs another cigarette. He gulps his coffee instead, watches as Sam pours some batter onto the sizzling pan, pokes the bacon. Neither of them say anything until Sam's done stacking pancakes on a plate and has poured them each a glass of orange juice.

"You okay?" Sam asks, warily eyeing his brother's twitching fingers.

"Fine," Dean snaps, stuffs a piece of bacon in his mouth and forces himself to chew, swallow. _Yeah, Sam_, he thinks. Drink your juice. It's the only fuckin' thing you're gonna be drinking from now on.

:::

Emmet Meckler's lock is ridiculously easy to pick.

It just takes a tiny bit of coaxing from Sam's paper clip as Dean stands guard, on the alert should anyone walk by, before the lock clicks and the door swings open invitingly.

Inside, the apartment is pretty much the exact same layout as the Finklestein's, but more spare, uncluttered, space enough for a wheelchair to pass comfortably through the rooms. The bathroom is tricked out in a major way, metal bars and strange contraptions on every wall, and Dean realizes just how fuckin' _shitty _the handicapped facilities are in the various motels they stay at. Dean manages okay, but someone in a wheelchair like Emmet would have a pretty hard fuckin' time.

If I ever have a house, Dean thinks, but doesn't let himself go any further than that, because, yeah, like he's ever gonna have a house.

The EMF is silent as they trawl through the kitchen, stalk through the living room, but it comes to life with a little whine as they reach the door of Emmet's bedroom. Sam goes in first, which Dean still can't get used to, and he keeps one hand to the bag slung around his shoulder, where he's got a sawed-off full of rocksalt just in case.

But the EMF never climbs above a complaining murmur, never lights up or starts screaming, and the room seems empty and harmless.

"Well," Dean says, gestures to the EMF in Sam's hand. "We've got a good indication of spirit activity. Just… not here right now."

"That thing sometimes acts up just for the hell of it," Sam points out.

"Dude. You're not still thinking this is natural?"

"I don't know," Sam says. "Keeping our options open, that's all."

They head out onto the balcony, look sharply towards the EMF as it lets out a high-pitched shriek as they pass through the door, but it settles quickly back into its hum.

"That's a long way down," Dean says, leans a hip against the railing and peers over the edge, squints curiously down at the sidewalk far below, imagining what it would be like to fall that far. Leave you with more than a busted leg, that's for sure. Probably be a little more exhilarating than plunging through two floors of crumbling wood, too.

"Dude," Sam says, tugging him back with an odd look on his face. "Let's go back in."

"Hang on," Dean says, starts digging in his pockets.

"You're _kidding _me."

"What? We're out here, and I need a smoke. Makes sense to me."

"Well, make it quick," Sam says, glancing nervously around. "I think it'd be a little hard to explain that we broke in here so you could have a cigarette on a dead man's balcony."

Dean chuckles, sparks his zippo and takes a heavy drag, enjoying the feeling of the breeze rustling his hair. It's gotten warmer as the sun is getting higher, and the wind is strong up here, strong and warm.

"You ever been in a hot air balloon?" he asks Sam suddenly.

"What? Where did _that _come from?"

"Just wonderin'. Have you?"

"Uh, yeah, actually. There was a fair near Stanford one time, and Jess made me take her up. I mean, we were roped to the ground the whole time, but..."

"What if the rope broke?" Dean asks. "Would you just float away? Poof?"

"I guess we would have drifted until – yeah, I don't know. I was kinda worried about that. But I figured it had to be pretty safe, otherwise they would get _so_ incredibly sued."

Dean pulls on his cigarette. "Lawyerly perspective to take."

"That's what Jess said." Sam smiles a little, then frowns. "Seriously, why do you ask?"

"Dunno. Might be kinda fun."

Sam stares. "Dude. Last time you went up in a plane, I thought you were gonna piss yourself. Like, I actually thought I was gonna have to explain to the flight attendants why my grown-up brother had pissed all over their seats."

Dean snorts smoke, coughs. "Whatever, man. You peed your pants when I took you to go see _It._"

"I was _six, _asshole."

"Dude, it's a movie about clowns. And you _peed._"

"Evil clowns!"

Dean takes a last drag of his cigarette, flicks it over the edge. "Tomato, tomahto, potato, po-pissed-yourself, pussy."

"Man," Sam marvels. "It must suck, never having gone through puberty."

"Let's go," Dean says.

The EMF whirrs shrilly again for a second as they walk back into the bedroom, and Dean pauses. "Hang on," he says. "This is where it spiked before."

He takes a couple awkward steps backward, glances around, doesn't see anything but Emmet's desk against the wall.

"Let's just check this out," he says, leans his cane against the desk so he can tug out a piece of cloth to rifle through the papers sitting on top of it without getting his fingerprints on anything. Sam comes over, starts looking through the drawers.

There's nothing suspicious, just a bunch of official looking documents and a yellow legal pad filled with doodles.

"Hey," Dean says. "Dude was kind of a good artist. Check it out." He shows Sam the pad.

"Not bad," Sam agrees. "Must have been a bird enthusiast. Looks like he knew what he was doing."

"Yeah," Dean says, examines the little drawings again, eye lingering over the sketch of an eagle, wings outstretched. It's detailed for such a rough drawing, and Dean can almost feel the wind that ruffles its feathers as it soars through the sky.

"Nothin' here," Sam says, and Dean puts the pad down, follows him out.

The next apartment they go to, Jane Winslow's old home, is pretty much clear of anything except dust bunnies, all furniture and personal possessions long since carted off by movers and family members. The EMF gives a half-hearted buzz as they go into her bedroom and head out onto the balcony, but nothing else seems out of place, so they get out pretty quickly, despite Dean's protests that should spend as long on Jane's balcony as they did on Emmet's, just in case.

Marlon Schefter has been dead a month, and from what Sam's gathered from his internet research, there's been a new family living there for the past week.

"Their names are Mary and Jake Rogers," Sam tells Dean. "I think they've got a kid. We could pretend to be from his school? Or something?"

Dean stares. Sometimes he can't believe Sam's really a Winchester. "Dude. That's the worst lie ever. We'll say we're just getting to know all the neighbors, act real friendly, step in to chat. You can pretend to go to the bathroom, snoop around, I'll ask some questions, see if they've noticed anything strange."

"Right." Sam says. "That's a better plan."

Sam knocks briskly, and there's a muffled, "Coming!" then a thud like something's fallen over, the sound of a child's delighted giggle.

A youngish man opens the door, leans on the jamb with one arm up, wary. "Can I help you?"

"Mr. Rogers?" Sam asks, and Dean chokes back a laugh. "Hey, I'm Sam, this is Dean, we're in five-oh-six. Just thought we'd stop by, introduce ourselves, say hello."

"Oh! That's nice of you," Mr. Rogers says, steps back. "I'm Tim. Uh – would you like to come in?"

"Thanks," Sam says, and Dean smiles, one step behind him. The guy looks kind of familiar, but he doesn't place him until a woman comes out of the kitchen, a plastic fire truck in her hand.

"Tim, what's—" and then she catches sight of Sam and Dean, stops, smiles.

Christ. It's the woman from the pool.

"Kris, this is Sam and Dean. They're our new neighbors, stopped by to say hey."

"Well, hey," she says. "Gosh, that's so sweet of you! Here, sit down, you guys want something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Beer?"

"Uh," Dean says.

"I'd love a beer," Sam dimples, doesn't seem to notice that Dean tenses beside him. Thanks a fuckin' lot, Mrs. Rogers.

There's a shriek from the kitchen, and Kris points at Dean. "Dean? Beer?"

"I'm good, thanks," Dean says.

"Coffee?"

"Sure," he relents, gives her a smile. She doesn't seem fazed by the fact that she watched him make a complete idiot of himself trying to get up the freakin' stairs of the pool yesterday.

They let Tim usher them onto the couch, and Dean tries not to mind the nervous glances he gives Dean's cane, tries not to mind the way his knee and hip harmonize in a shrieking choir as he lowers himself carefully next to his brother. He surreptitiously puts a hand on his knee, digs his fingers into the twitching muscle and wonders why the hell his leg is so fucking unpredictable. One day it'll be fine – as fine as can be expected, anyway – and the next it'll hurt so bad Dean's tempted to saw the whole goddamn thing off.

Sam starts asking Tim a few bland questions, and Dean tries to pay attention, but he's having trouble focusing, doesn't think it matters too much right now anyway – Sam's asking things like, _Where'd you move from? How old is your son? _And other shit that has nothing to do with ghosts and everything to do with boring.

Kris comes out of the kitchen, kid in tow. He looks around five years old, all big eyes and shaggy blond hair that needs to be cut, and Dean smiles a little when he realizes that Sam and the kid have pretty much the exact same hair style.

"This is Cole," Kris says, hands Sam his beer and Dean a cup of coffee, which they take with synchronized Thank-Yous. "Cole, can you say hi to Dean and Sam?"

"Hi Dean and Sam," the kid says, blinking up at them before wandering off into the corner, where he plops himself down and picks up a Game Boy.

"Hi," Dean calls after him.

"He just got that thing for his birthday," Kris says with a gusty sigh, collapses into an armchair. "We had to put it on silent. That Mario music was driving me fu—freakin' crazy. Do do, da da dum da dum," she sings.

"I know that song," Sam grins. "Pretty catchy."

"You're telling me," Tim mutters. "It was infiltrating my dreams."

Sam laughs, takes a long drink of his beer as Dean watches with tightened lips.

Dean starts to formulate a question about the apartment, but Kris starts talking before he can say anything.

"So, where're you boys from originally?" she asks. "I can tell it's not Texas."

"Kansas," Dean says as Sam says, "California."

They stop dead, but Kris doesn't seem to notice. "So this is a pretty accepting place to live, huh?" she asks, and it takes Dean a second to realize what she's saying.

Oh, _Christ. _He may as well just get a nametag that says _Sam Winchester's Bitch _and be done with it. Except, hey. Sam would totally be _his _bitch. If they were one another's bitches. Which they're _not. _

Though that would be news to Kris, apparently.

"Very accepting," Sam agrees, flashes his dimples again and takes another long swallow of his beer.

Kris is a _talker, _prattles on for a while about where they used to live in Oklahoma, and Dean and Sam – and Tim – hum and nod in the right places. Dean finishes his cup of coffee, and Sam finishes his beer, and they still haven't learned shit about the apartment.

"Uh," Sam says finally. "Do you mind – could I use your bathroom?"

"Oh, sure!" Kris says. "Just down that hall."

"Thanks."

Sam gets up and Dean shifts a little, stretches out his leg into the space Sam's legs just vacated.

"What happened?" Kris asks, marking his grimace.

"Oh," Dean says, trying to remember what Sam told Marcella. "Car accident." _Lame. _

She winces in sympathy. "Tim was in a terrible car accident a few years ago, weren't you, honey?"

"Yup," Tim confirms. "Shoulder's never been the same since."

"Leg either," Dean says.

"You don't need an extra pair of crutches, do you?" Kris asks, and Tim laughs like she's made some kind of joke.

"Uh," Dean says, confused, because how did she know that? "Why?"

"Previous tenant left them here, along with a bunch of other bizarre stuff. Found it all packed into a corner closet."

"Really?" Dean says. "Like what other kind of stuff?"

"Like, his art projects or something," Kris says. "We haven't cleared it out yet. You wanna see?"

"Yeah!" Dean says, hopes he didn't sound too excited.

Kris bounces to her feet, waits patiently as Dean climbs slowly to his own, follows her into the hall, makes sure to slam his cane loudly on the ground so Sam knows they're coming, if he's snooping around.

Sure enough, Sam's hovering awkwardly in the door of the bathroom, pretending to exit.

"Kris is showing me some stuff the previous tenant left here," Dean says pointedly.

"Huh," Sam says, feigning nonchalance. "Interesting."

"Yeah, look at this," Kris says, opens a small closet in the corner, a closet that, judging by the size and shape, was clearly made for brooms and nothing but brooms.

There are no brooms, though, just a stack of white wood that has Dean squinting, trying to figure out what's going on. Then he realizes – model planes.

"Cool," he breathes, leans against the wall.

"I guess," Kris says doubtfully.

Dean turns to Sam, expecting to see a big geek smile on his face – considering he spent his entire eighth summer constructing fighter jets out of egg cartons – but Sam's not looking at the planes.

"What're those for?" he asks, gestures to the crutches leaned up against the back of the closet. They're like the ones Dean had, before they got ripped apart by a poltergeist; grey, institutional-looking forearm crutches – but they look more expensive, with a cushy blue grip where Dean's just had metal. And they're a hell of a lot less beat-up, considering Dean found his at a Goodwill by a local hospital.

"Guess the man that lived here had a couple knee replacements," Kris says. "This is all he left behind. Dunno why no one noticed this stuff."

"Dean," Sam says. "These – you –" he pauses, addresses Kris. "This might sound weird," he says, "but we're actually kind of in the market for a pair of crutches like that."

"Dude," Dean says, feeling the flush of mortification climb up his neck.

"Really?" Kris says. "Well, I mean, you can totally have them. If you really – I mean, we're sure not gonna use them, knock on wood." She thwacks a fist against the wall.

"You serious?" Sam says. "That would be awesome. They're really expensive, and we don't –" he stops, notices the unnatural magenta of Dean's face. "If you wouldn't mind," he finishes weakly.

"No, take them," Kris says, reaches in and pulls them free from the miniature airplanes, hands them to Sam, who beams.

"Thanks!"

"Thanks," Dean says grudgingly, because this is fucking _embarrassing, _but he does have manners.

They make their excuses shortly after, leave Kris and Tim in the living room with Cole, who's found the volume adjustment button on his new Game Boy and is happily squawking along with his Mario game.

Dean wheels on Sam when they're in the elevator, gives him an outraged, incredulous look that Sam was pretty much expecting.

"Dude," he says. "We are not a fucking _charity. _You can't just go around stealing fucking medical supplies from people."

"They didn't need them," Sam says reasonably. "You do."

"No, I don't!"

"Uh, yeah. You do."

"Well, not badly enough to beg them off of complete strangers! Who got them from a dead guy!"

"Too late to give them back."

"You little shit," Dean growls, and Sam chooses not to respond to that. Because it's clear he already won – they both know Dean's gonna use the stupid crutches. Maybe not right away – he's gotta sulk a little, first – but he'll use them.

When they're back in the apartment and the new (used) crutches are propped up innocuously in the corner of the kitchen, Dean heads out to the balcony, Sam nervously in tow.

He's been thinking about the victims, trying to see patterns, and the only pattern he can see is, well – one of them was paralyzed, one of them had two knee replacements. If there's any kind of pattern – Dean fits it.

And he's been acting – not strange, nothing like that – but, just – well, like right now, he's leaning up against the railing of the balcony to light his cigarette, looks out over the edge like he's enjoying the view. This is _Dean. _Dean, who can barely take an elevator to the fifth floor without getting nervous. And his fear of heights has only gotten worse since his accident.

But now, it's like he's forgotten he was ever frightened.

Sam sits in the corner of the balcony, watches as Dean silently smokes his way through two cigarettes, lights one off the butt of the last, gazing out at the sky, which has cleared a bit since that morning, patches of blue shining through. It's warm, not like yesterday, but enough that Sam is comfortable, more or less, in just a t-shirt.

Sam can taste the beer the Rogers' gave him on his tongue, in the back of his throat, and he really, really wants another one. Can feel a headache coming on, creeping up in the back of his skull, a mixture of tiredness and tension that squeezes his brain painfully. Yeah, he could really use a drink. If not a beer, just a little whiskey, maybe, stirred into his coffee.

His mouth waters at the thought. God, yeah. A cup of coffee with just enough whiskey to take the edge of his headache, smooth the jagged corners of everything around him. And maybe a beer, too, cool and slightly bitter, perfect, jesus, he—

He looks down, realizes his hands are clenched, nails digging into his palms.

He knows. He knows it's early, and he knows his brother would flip his shit if he found out Sam was contemplating spiking his coffee, he knows they're on a job, he knows he has to stay alert. He knows.

What he's trying to figure out right now is whether or not he cares.

For one thing, it's not _that _early. Nearly two o'clock in the afternoon. For another, Dean overreacts to everything anyway. And as for staying alert — he's pretty sure he'd feel a hell of a lot more alert with something a little stronger added to his much-needed dose of caffeine.

But he knows, also, that Dean is right, on some level – he's been drinking too much. Well, not _too much, _but more than usual, anyway – because _too much _implies that he doesn't have a handle on it, which he does. It's not like Dean, who really can't go more than an hour without a smoke or he starts twitching and snapping, hands shaking ever-so-slightly. It's not like _that – _Sam doesn't _need _a drink. He just wants one, and there doesn't seem to be any good reason not to have one. He wants lots of shit, like maybe a perfectly-toasted BLT, but he doesn't _need _that, either. Though he's definitely gonna make one as soon as he's back inside.

Dean shifts a little, grimacing, and Sam glances up, watches his brother's hand settle carefully on his hip, no real pressure, just a light touch, like he's trying to reassure himself, somehow, get his leg to settle down.

Dean catches Sam watching him, and he reaches up and takes the cigarette out of his mouth, gives him an appraising look, smoke trailing from his nostrils.

"Haircut after this? We can do it in like, ten minutes."

"Lunch first," Sam says. "BLTs."

"Dude, you're kinda going overboard on the bacon, don't you think?"

"Fatten you up," Sam says, and Dean snorts, nurses one last drag from his cigarette and flicks it to the ground.

Dean goes to the bathroom when they're inside, and Sam spends a brief moment hovering in front of the liquor cabinet before he gives in, works in a few swift belts of the whiskey before he hears the toilet flush and his brother's halting footsteps coming towards him.

He's not _hiding _it. He just, he's just, it's – okay, fine, yeah, he's hiding it. But he wouldn't be hiding it if his brother hadn't been such a drama queen last night.

Except, when he looks at it from Dean's point of view, he feels a slight twinge of anxiety in his gut, despite the comforting swell of alcohol. If he didn't _need _that whiskey, why did he drink it?

You're entitled to it, Sam tells himself, turning on the stove burner with a hiss of gas and the click of mechanics catching hold of one another. You're stressed.

And it's true. It's fine. It has to be.

Dean comes back into the kitchen with an Actiq stick clenched between his teeth, lowers himself into a chair and spends a few moments trying to get comfortable, and Sam looks away, wonders why the fuck his brother's painkillers aren't doing their damn job the way they're supposed to. Dean finally settles, bad leg stretched out under the kitchen table, lets Sam make him a BLT while he sits with a pad and paper and goes through everything they know aloud.

"There's no real pattern," Dean says eventually. "Except, well. Two of them were, as you would say, mobility challenged."

"Yeah," Sam says, relieved that he didn't have to point it out. He adds more butter to the pan and thinks about the beer sitting innocently in the fridge.

"We're gonna have to talk to some more people. See if they were acting wacky before they, uh." He makes a vague chopping motion.

"Yeah," Sam says, flips the sandwiches, chews the inside of his cheek a little.

You know what, fuck it – he's twenty-two, not some seven year-old who has to jump when his older brother says jump. If he wants a fucking beer, he can have one.

He crosses decisively over to the fridge, doesn't need to see Dean to know that his brother's eyes are narrowing as he tugs a beer loose with a soft clink of glass.

"The fuck are you doing?" Dean asks.

"The fuck does it look like?" Sam retorts, flips the top open with a little more force than is strictly necessary.

"Looks like you're drinking a beer right in front of me, in the middle of the day, while we're on a job."

"So first you bitch at me 'cause you think I'm "hiding" something," Sam says, makes quotations in the air that he _knows _are obnoxious but he just can't help himself, "and now you're pissed 'cause I'm having _one _beer with lunch?"

"I'm not _pissed,_" Dean says, but he sure looks pissed. "I just – I thought we talked about this."

Sam tosses Dean's sandwich on a plate and shoves it at him, bangs his own plate down and follows it, folding himself up into the chair across from his brother and taking a defiant swig of his beer.

"Dean," Sam says. "I'm not gonna excuse myself to you if I want a drink now and then, okay? I'm just not gonna do it. Like it or not, I'm grown-up, and you can't just order me around like you're Dad and I'm your fucking soldier."

Dean opens his mouth to retort, but before he can speak, a hollow banging sound begins to echo through the apartment.

"The fuck is that?" he asks, annoyed.

"The door," Sam says, and stands.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Thank you all so much for being patient! And thanks a million times over for reading, I deeply adore you.

:::

Sam and Dean, in their years of working the job, have, of course, dealt with the cops quite a bit (though their definition of "deal with" tends to mean "impersonate" or "knock unconscious" more often than not). But this, right now? This definitely marks the first time Sam's ever cordially invited an officer of the law into his home and offered to make him a sandwich.

"BLT sounds _great_, thanks," Officer Belknap says with a nod, settling himself into Sam's vacated chair and eyeing Dean warily.

Dean's sitting very straight, toying with his sandwich and trying so hard _not _to seem suspicious that even Sam feels like he's up to something. Dean's been doing his very best "gee-whiz" face ever since Officer Belknap came in and introduced himself, told them he was going from apartment to apartment doing a routine check due to the "unfortunate events that have occurred in this building lately."

"It's all so upsetting," Dean had said, green eyes widening dramatically in a way that reminded Sam strangely of Marcella. The bad acting is unlike him, and normally Sam would worry… except for the fact that by now, he's pretty well-versed in the slight but telltale slur to his brother's voice that means Dean's taken an extra dose of Vicodin, on top of the Actiq Sam just watched him finish — and it's clear that they're both kicking in strong. Which is good insofar as pain is concerned, but _bad _when it comes to convincing Officer Belknap that they're not psychotic.

Sam goes to put a few more rashers of bacon in the pan, winces as he hears Dean ask, "So do all officers get to carry guns?"

He's gotta start curbing Dean's porn intake.

Belknap takes the question seriously, though, and begins to monologue, and Sam relaxes just a bit as he realizes they've got a desk-cop on their hands. He can hear the relish in Belknap's voice as he describes procedure, a tone Sam recognizes from certain of his law professors who didn't understand why everyone wasn't as fascinated by statues of limitation as they were.

He flips the bacon and tries to quell the quiver of nerves that beat through his belly. The officer's just doing a routine check. No way did he find out that they broke into those apartments – it's only been about three hours. The security system can't be _that _great here. They've got nothing to worry about except sticking to their story.

He reaches out and hooks his beer from the table and takes a long swig, ignores his brother's eyes, hard even behind the glaze of too much medication.

"You want one?" Sam offers the cop.

"I'm on duty, son," Belknap says importantly. "Wouldn't say no to a cup of coffee, though."

Sam obliges, puts the kettle on as the toast pops up with a ding.

"Mayo?"

"If it's not too much trouble."

Sam starts spreading mayonnaise as Dean says, "So, what can we do for you, officer?"

Belknap leans back in his chair, knots his fingers over his belly. "Answer a few standard questions, nothin' fancy. Why don't we wait till – it's Sam, right? Till Sam takes a seat."

Sam slaps the sandwich together, puts it on a plate and slides it in front of the cop, who gives him a heartfelt thank-you and a look of open appreciation that has Sam softening towards the guy, just a little, cop or no.

"Coffee'll be ready in a bit," Sam says, finishes his beer with a gulp and snags another one out of the fridge before sitting in the chair at the head of the small kitchen table.

Dean glares at the bottle, then at Sam, but Sam steadfastly ignores him. They've got bigger things to deal with right now than Dean's pointless whining about his drinking. This'll be his last one, anyway – he can feel the whiskey he snuck earlier mingling with the beer and spreading languid through his body, steadying him. It's just a question of justice, that's all – it's not fair that Dean's drugged to the gills and Sam has to pick up all the fucking slack.

"Let's start with where you're from," the officer says, takes a bite of the sandwich and flips through a clipboard he's got beside him on the table.

"California," Sam says, flicking Dean a glance and hoping he'll let him do most of the talking.

"Where in California?" Belknap asks, and Sam spins some story about a suburb he'd visited once, outside of Palo Alto, Dean chiming in once or twice with some invented detail. They go on like that for a while, Belknap asking stupid, routine questions, leading up to how and why they decided to come to Texas (spring break), how they found the apartment, etc.

"What made you choose this particular apartment?" Belknap asks, and Sam knows what he really means is, _Why did you choose to stay in a building that's basically a retirement home?_

"Uh, for the, you know, facilities," Sam says, fakes awkwardness, flaps a hand at Dean, who takes his cue and reaches out to where the cane's propped up against the wall, gives it a rattle and a rueful smile.

"Ah," Belknap says, squinting at Dean like he's trying to ascertain the nature of his injury, which is pretty pointless since Dean is sitting down, appears completely normal unless you know to look for the way he's got his right leg arranged carefully in front of him, weight leaned on his left side to get the pressure off his bad hip.

"What happened?" Belknap asks.

"Car accident 'bout nine months ago," Dean says, and Belknap makes a note while Sam, surprised, adds up the time in his head. November, December, January, February, March… Jess has been gone for five months. Almost half a year. One whole quarter of the time Sam knew her – and Sam's never thought about it like that, but _god. _ He barely knew her at all.

The thought makes his heart clench painfully in his chest, and he misses Belknap's next few questions, lets Dean field them for a moment until he can shake his head, clear it, tune in to hear Belknap begin a line of questioning that finally relates to what's been going on.

"You arrived here the night of the latest incident, correct?"

"Yes," Sam and Dean say in unison.

"Did you have any contact with the deceased?"

"No."

Belknap nods, scribbles something down, then scratches his temple with the pen and offers up a sympathetic smile. "I know you boys probably think it's pretty pointless, me asking you these questions, considering you've been here all of three days."

"You're just doing your job," Sam says, can't believe he's reassuring a police officer.

"Yeah," Belknap agrees, sighs. "Don't know why they keep me on this damn case. You know, Jane Winslow – the first suicide – she was a good friend of my wife's, even though she was a fair sight older. Came over our house all the time, was always calling up."

"That's awful," Dean says, leaning forward and enunciating carefully to keep the slur out of his voice. "Did she – did she seem unhappy, to you?"

"Ah, Jane was always complaining about something. But she never struck me as depressed… Hell of a shock."

"What did she complain about?" Dean asks, and Sam sips his beer, quirks a little smile at the fact that the tables have been turned on poor Belknap and he doesn't even know it. Interviewer become the interviewee.

"Oh, this and that. Politics, bad drivers, her arthritis, you name it."

"Arthritis can be a bitch," Dean says, clearly trying to sound sympathetic, and not doing a half-bad job of it. "Our dad had a pretty terrible case."

Sam can't quite hold in a snort at the thought of John Winchester with arthritis.

"Yeah, poor Jane, it really got her towards the end," Belknap says. "Had to use a cane and everything." He almost trips over the word cane, eyes flicking to Dean, but it's just a brief hesitation, and Sam suddenly realizes he sort of likes the man. He seems kind.

"Huh," Dean says, hand straying unconsciously to his bad knee. Sam sees suddenly that he's barely touched his sandwich, though Sam and Belknap have both finished theirs.

"Walked with a cane," Dean murmurs, glances at Sam with a significant eyebrow raise, and Sam mouths _Eat _at him, nods towards the BLT.

Dean takes a reluctant bite, asks Belknap through the mouthful, "What'd Jane do for a living?"

"Retired schoolteacher," Belknap says, delicately licking the pad of his finger and chasing a few crumbs around his plate. "And poet. She just had some poems published, actually. A posthumous thing, chapbook, her daughter arranged it. Apparently she wrote them all in the week before she passed. They're not bad."

"Love to see a copy," Dean says, swallows, sets his sandwich down as Sam finishes his beer and wonders how soon would be too soon to drink another.

"Library's got it," Belknap says, looks at Dean thoughtfully. "You don't strike me as the kinda guy who'd like poetry."

"You don't strike me as a cop," Dean returns, and Sam winces, but Belknap laughs.

"That's what they all say." He pushes himself to his feet. "I think we're pretty much done here, guys. 'Preciate your cooperation. I got any further questions, I'll call."

"Thank you," Sam says, stands to shake his hand.

Dean, too, leverages himself carefully to his feet, leans on the table to shake.

Sam shows the guy to the door, makes sure it's locked tight behind him, comes back to find Dean still on his feet, cane in hand.

"Cigarette," he says without preamble. "Then the public library. Read that chick's poetry, maybe shed some light on the subject."

"Eat your sandwich," Sam orders.

Dean picks it up in his free hand with an elaborate eye roll, starts moving towards the balcony. "Nice guy, Belknap," he says over his shoulder. "For once we got a cop actually helpin' us out."

"Yeah," Sam says, following his brother. "So, uh – looks like we got ourselves a pattern. Just like we thought."

"Looks like," Dean says.

"A pattern you fit," Sam says, because he's not gonna beat around the bush – the bush is way too fuckin' huge and leafy for that.

"Sam," Dean says, making no effort to hide the exasperation in his voice. "I'm not gonna get possessed by any freakin' spirit, so you can untwist your panties anytime now. Spirits possess people that don't know a ghoul from a ghost – but me? Me 'n' you? Dude, come on. We both know exactly what we're dealing with."

"I'm just saying," Sam says, hating the way his brother stumbles a little over his words. "We gotta be careful."

"Open the door," Dean says, nudges a chin at the sliding glass leading out to the balcony. "I've got a sandwich in my hand."

Sam complies, frowning. "If you ate it, you could open the door yourself."

Dean snorts eloquently and leans up against the balcony, letting his cane rest against the metal rail and digging in his pocket for his cigarettes. "Oops."

"Dude!" Sam says as the sandwich drops from Dean's hand and spills open onto the tile of the balcony floor, bacon mingling with ash from Dean's discarded butts.

"Oh, shit," Dean says with feeling, hopes Sam doesn't realize that he dropped it on purpose. He's realized, belatedly, that he kind of overdid the Vicodin, is feeling a bit nauseous, head fogged, and the thought of eating has his stomach roiling in nervous protest. But at least his leg has stopped rudely pounding its steady tattoo of pain throughout his body.

"You fuckin' jerk," Sam mutters, scuffs a foot disconsolately at the bread.

"Sorry, man," Dean says, lights his cigarette and inhales slowly. He needs some coffee, that's what he needs. Or _speed. _"So," he says, trying to gather his addled thoughts. "What kind of spirit would go after people who have trouble walking? That's weird, right?"

"Yeah, it's weird," Sam agrees. "We must be missing something. Something about the history of the building, or…" he shakes his head in frustration.

"Maybe it's Jane," Dean says. "She was the first victim, but maybe in her case, it was actually suicide. Maybe she offed herself for real."

"And then came back," Sam says slowly. "Huh. It's a thought. We'll look into how her body was dealt with."

Dean nods, takes a drag of his cigarette and squints out at the blue sky. "So, if you were gonna kill yourself, how would you do it?" he asks.

"Jesus," Sam says. "Morbid, much?"

"Oh, come on, like you've never thought about it? Everyone's thought about it."

"Gun," Sam says, after a moment. "Obviously."

"Which one?"

Sam laughs a little. "Glock 35."

"Good choice," Dean says approvingly.

"I can't believe we're talking about this," Sam mutters.

"Why not? We talk about how we'd kill ever other damn thing in the world."

Sam laughs for real this time. "True, I guess."

Dean smokes in silence for a moment, staring at the blanket of cumulous covering the horizon, and then Sam says, "What about you?"

"Same thing," Dean answers, but for the first time he thinks that maybe a gun wouldn't be the best way to go. Sure, it's quick, effective, probably involves very little pain – but – all of a sudden, he can kind of see the appeal of jumping, an act he's always thought remarkably stupid before. He'd always marveled at anyone who would want those horrible seconds of free-fall, where you'd undoubtedly reconsider and spend your last moments on earth in a whirlwind of terror and regret. But now he thinks that maybe those few moments in the air would be the perfect segway between life and death – total, complete freedom, flying for just a few seconds, and then – poof. Or, more splat than poof, if he's realistic.

"You've never really _actually _thought about it, though, have you?" Sam asks suddenly, making Dean jump a little, his mind miles above the ground. The fucking painkillers are really getting to him, making him dreamy and disconnected. He always forgets that the pain is almost preferable to this.

"Nah," Dean says, because yeah, maybe there's been times he's wanted to die, but he's sure as hell never wanted to be the one to do it.

He fishes in his pocket for another cigarette, lights it off the butt of his last and ignores Sam's sour-lemon face – Dean just doesn't want to back inside quite yet. He feels a little anxious, claustrophobic, like his skin is too small, and it's a weird sensation contrasted against the heavy sluggishness of his limbs and the drugged slog of his brain.

"Stanford made me see a counselor freshman year," Sam says abruptly, and Dean looks at him in surprise. He's got his back to the view of the city and sky, long elbows looped over the railing, glancing sideways at Dean.

"No shit? Why?"

"Couple professors thought I was depressed. I just – I didn't really talk to anyone for the first few months. Didn't do things like everyone else. And, fuck, the essays I wrote freshman year…" Sam barks a laugh. "I mean, I kind of stuck to what I knew, at first. Which is, you know – death, and killing, gun maintenance, the best way to cremate a body… no wonder they thought I was suicidal."

"Were you?" Dean asks, feels even more nauseous than he had a moment ago.

"No," Sam says. "I was just really fucking confused."

Dean digests this information, pulls smoke deep into his lungs and lets it out slow. He'd always figured Sam left his family, got to Stanford, and everything was perfect, just like that – no period of adjustment, no looking back, just immediate perfection, safe in his picket-fence life. Dean would have imagined that the thought would please him, vindicate him somehow, but it just makes his chest hurt.

"Finish that now," Sam orders, gestures to Dean's cigarette. "It's already almost two thirty. I wanna get moving, google the library, make sure they have the book we want."

"Shit, we forgot to ask the title."

"It's her most recent one. We'll figure it out."

Dean takes a last drag, drops the half-smoked butt regretfully on the ground and pushes himself away from the railing, makes an unsteady grab for his cane as his Vicodin-slow limbs don't immediately respond the way he may have hoped.

He sees Sam make a little movement, but he doesn't touch him, for which Dean is thankful. But he can't help clenching his teeth a little, hates feeling so fucking _clumsy _all the goddamn time, body so out of control. It doesn't seem fair, to be trapped like this in a faulty machine.

He settles himself onto the couch, carefully pulls his legs up and leans into the cushions and, after a brief fight, gives into the drugs, zones out in a haze of numb while his brother surfs the web, scribbling down bus stops and street names, computer keys tapping a steady click-click hum. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click……..

"Hey."

Sam's voice comes out of nowhere, and Dean blinks himself out of a sleep he hadn't realized he'd fallen into, focuses bleary eyes on his brother's face.

"Dude," Sam says. "You've been napping for like, half an hour. You really think you're up for the library?"

Dean unsticks his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Yeah," he slurs. "'M just tired."

Sam shakes his head. "Exactly how much did you take, man?"

"Take?" Dean tries innocently, then realizes it's a little late for that, sighs. "Uh, double. Ish."

"Christ, Dean…" Sam runs a hand through his shaggy head. "How about you just stay here while I go get the book? Shouldn't take me more than an hour or so, the library's just –"

"No," Dean says, pushing himself up into a sit, "No, I'm fine, I'm coming. I'm good."

Is that a flicker of disappointment he sees on his brother's face? Great. Sam probably wanted to go alone so he could stop in a fucking _bar _or something. Dean feels a surge of anger fight its way through his medicated daze, and his head suddenly feels a little clearer.

"I did some cleaning on those crutches while you were asleep," Sam says, stepping back so his brother can struggle to his feet. "Maybe you should…"

"Cleaning?"

"Yeah, you know. Sage. Little banishing spell. Just in case… 'cause they did come from a dead guy."

"No shit," Dean snaps, but lets his brother take his cane and hand him the crutches, slips his arms into the cuffs and takes a few hesitant steps. He'd forgotten – they really _are _a hell of a lot easier on his leg than the cane. And these are pretty freakin' expensive, and _nice. _

Sam is hovering anxiously, eyes wide. "They're adjustable, so if you need to—"

"No, they fit fine," Dean says, and they do, perfectly, in fact. "Thanks," he says grudgingly, and Sam beams.

Dean looks away, absolutely _hates _that he's asking himself if his brother's smile is genuine or alcohol-induced. _Hates _that he's so suspicious, hates even more that he's pretty sure he has reason to be. He'd been asleep for half an hour, after all… plenty of time for Sam to sneak a couple drinks.

He begins to make his way into the kitchen, Sam trailing behind, gives it a once-over for bottles or something, but sees nothing. Sam's watching, a little confused.

"You hungry?"

"No," Dean says, grimaces at the thought, but then suddenly has an image of himself from the mirror from that morning, jawline arrowhead sharp, cheeks hollow under his three-day beard. "Maybe I'll have some of that peanut butter," he concedes reluctantly, leans up against the counter and watches Sam heap him a giant spoonful.

"Open wide," Sam grins, and Dean rolls his eyes, grabs the spoon and glomps the sticky mass into his mouth, swallows with some difficulty, swabs it from his teeth and the roof of his mouth with one finger and licks it off, swallows again.

"That is _disgusting,_" Sam says, backing away, and now it's Dean's turn to grin.

"Let's get a move on," he says, inexplicably cheered by the look of repulsion on his brother's face.

He stumbles a little as he tries to settle himself on the crutches, still moving as if he's using his cane, and Sam gives him an uncertain glance.

"You think you'll be okay taking the bus?" he asks, and Dean mock-scowls, flips him the bird. It's the freakin' _bus. _How hard can it be?

:::

Really fucking hard, as it turns out. Dean had somehow forgotten the ginormous step upwards that all busses boast, and he and Sam attempt to finagle his way up for a full minute without success, about four people behind them, looking at their watches and pretending to be patient. Finally the bus driver has to lower down the hissing mechanical ramp used to transport wheelchairs, and Dean boards the bus with his face burning, knows that for once his paranoia that everyone's watching him is completely founded. The bus is pretty full, and there's about twenty-five pairs of eyes blinking up at him curiously, and he has to actively resist the urge to turn around and get the hell away.

The bus starts with a lurch, and Sam's hand closes tight around Dean's elbow just as an older woman pitches upwards from her seat, motions for Dean to take it.

"No, thank you," Dean says, smiling through clenched teeth. "Sit, please, I'm fine."

"Honey, really, sit down."

"I'm _fine,_" he says, a little harsher this time, and she sits back down with a little _jeez _shake of her head.

Dean ends up clutching one of the metal poles for dear life, certain with every bounce and jolt that he's gonna end up in some stranger's lap. Namely, the homeless-looking dude with a bloodstained bandana who's muttering obscenities to himself.

Sam's got Dean's crutches held easily in one huge hand, and he sways with the bus like he's surfing, nothing to it, shifting from one leg to another as the vehicle jounces from side to side.

Dean suddenly wishes he were young enough to drop to the ground and throw a huge fucking tantrum, because this _sucks, _and he knows he's a big baby for feeling so tweaked out and on-the-verge-of-tears, because there's a lot worse things that could happen than have a bunch of strangers staring at you… but right now, it feels pretty fucking awful.

God, he thinks suddenly, if only he could fly. Wouldn't have to bother with busses then, hell, wouldn't have to bother with legs at all. He could just hover over the ground, glide from one place to another easy as you please, fuck crutches and canes and wheelchair ramps and overdosing on painkillers…

"Our stop is next," Sam says, hands Dean his crutches as the bus grinds to a stop.

Getting off is easier than getting on, and Dean manages to swing himself down with Sam's help, no special ramp necessary, but it still feels like a huge production, and he can feel people staring at him out the back window as the bus grinds away.

"We're about two blocks from the library," Sam says apologetically as Dean fumbles in his pocket for his cigarettes.

Dean snaps his zippo, exhales a cloud of fresh smoke and looks up at his little brother, tries on a smile. "Lead the way."

The Fort Worth public library is spacious and nearly empty, maybe because all the usual student studiers are off getting wasted, and Sam's voice echoes as he asks the reference librarian for Jane Winslow's most recent poetry collection.

"Here," Sam says, ushering his unresisting brother to a corner set up with a few chairs. "Why don't you read that while I go see if I can hunt down some building history and check out what happened to Jane's body."

"Okay," Dean says, and Sam feels his stomach clench at the tired look of defeat on Dean's face as he shakes himself free of the crutches and lowers himself into the uncomfortable library armchair by a big window.

"You all right?" Sam asks, and immediately realizes it would have been better to just keep his goddamn mouth shut.

"I'll be back soon," Sam says, edging away, leaves his glowering brother to settle himself in for some quality poetry time.

As soon as he's out of Dean's sight, Sam ducks into the Cookbook aisle and glances around for a moment before tugging the flask of whiskey out of his jacket's inside pocket, stares at it for a long moment before twisting the cap off and letting a long swig burn its way down his throat, runs a hand across the back of his mouth and thinks about how they're taking a fucking taxi home, because the bus was a nightmare he doesn't ever want to repeat.

He takes another gulp, tells himself it's just a little pick-me-up, but deep down he knows he just wants to get _drunk. _Not buzzed, not tipsy, but full-out shitfaced. And he's not stupid — he knows that it's an inappropriate desire to have at four o'clock while he's at the library researching a job – but it's spring break, for chrissake. If he were back at Stanford, he'd probably be doing jello shots with his next-door neighbors right now.

By the time he's climbed to the third floor and clicked through a couple back issues of the newspaper obits on microfiche and ascertained that Jane was cremated according to the wishes expressed in her will, he's feelin' pretty relaxed, rocks back and forth just a tiny bit and has to squint a little to read the fine print swimming across the builder's contract for the apartment building.

He finds Dean downstairs, heavy-lidded and completely absorbed in Jane's book.

"This is _good,_" Dean says, waves it as he sees Sam come towards him.

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Good. Poetry. You. Good." Oops. Way to speak in complete sentences, Sam.

"Yeah, check it out," Dean says, and Sam picks up the book to the page Dean's marked, lips moving as he reads to himself.

_The sky opens like a mouth_

_to a lover's kiss,_

_lick of a wing against the shaft of sun,_

_burst of thick cloud and_

_a swallow,_

_thrumming the beat of ecstasy…_

Sam stops reading, looks up incredulously. "Dean," he says. "This is, like, bird porn."

"It's kinda hot, right?" Dean says, good leg bouncing a little.

"Is it all like this?"

"Pretty much."

Sam flips to the front cover, reads the title: _Airborne. _

"All her poems," Dean says. "They're about the sky. Flying."

"Huh," Sam says slowly.

Dean takes the book back, taps it with one calloused finger. "You remember those bird drawings at Emmet's apartment?"

"And Marlon's planes," Sam says, brain churning to work its way through the mild haze of alcohol.

"Flying," Dean says. "Maybe Casper makes them think they can fly."

"Jesus," Sam says. "That's…"

"Disturbing?" Dean nods. "Little bit, yeah." He flips the book around in his hands thoughtfully, then starts to peel the library sensor off the spine.

"Dude," Sam says, "what are you doing?"

"Stealing," Dean says, crumples the sticky plastic and flicks it away, tucks the book into his jacket and reaches for his crutches. "Let's go. I need a smoke."

:::

They do end up taking a taxi home, Dean bitching half-heartedly about how they can't afford it, but secretly he's relieved, even as he watches Sam fork over twenty bucks of hard-earned hustling money.

He's still a little out of it from the painkillers, and wants pretty much nothing more than to stretch out on the couch and pass out, but he props his head up in one hand instead and wills himself to stay awake as Sam breaks out the journal and they start looking for anything other than a spirit that might make someone do the swan dive off a balcony.

Dean listens with half an ear as he flips through Jane's book again, smirking a little in some parts. For an old lady, she's got some pretty racy shit. It's not _bad, _either, he doesn't think – in fact, he finds himself really connecting to some of the poems, the descriptions of flight. He wonders if, when she leaped from the balcony, she believed she could fly all the way down. Believed she was finally flying, rather than falling. It'd almost be worth it, for that moment of utter faith – even if the flight was only imaginary, it was _flight. _

God, what Dean wouldn't give to be able to shed this fucking body for just five minutes, shake himself loose of the earth and all its constraints, the gravity that keeps him on the ground, keeps him clumsy and crippled and in pain…

"You listening?" Sam asks, voice cutting through Dean's daydreams like an unpleasantly sharp knife.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Yeah. You, uh, didn't find anything." He tries to make it a statement rather than a question to show he's paying attention.

"Nothing," Sam says, slams the journal shut. "Fucking fuck."

Something in his voice makes Dean look up, really look, and he suddenly notices that his brother's face is flushed, eyes glassy, and Dean's stomach gives an unpleasant lurch that has nothing to do with too much Vicodin.

"Hey," Dean says, grappling for his crutches, "help me up, huh? I'm gonna go outside and have a cigarette."

Sam steps forward obligingly, hauls his brother up, and Dean, under the pretense of leaning on Sam's shoulder, takes a deep whiff of his brother's breath.

_Fuck._

"Sam," Dean says, low, calm. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Drink?" Sam says, face going pale, and he takes a step out from his brother's hand, shakes his head, "Dude, you gotta stop with the—"

"God_dammit,_ Sam," Dean barks, pushes down his hysteria, but he _knows _what alcohol smells like on someone's breath, and he knows his brother, and he knows he's completely out of his league, here, knows this is some serious shit and knows he can't ignore it – the only thing he doesn't know is what the fuck to do.

"Was it the library?" Dean asks, moving forward as menacingly as he can on his crutches. "Did you leave me to read fucking poetry and run off to hit the booze as soon as you'd stuck me in a corner?"

"No, dude, you're crazy," Sam says, but one look at his terrified face and Dean can tell he's right on the mark.

"Sam," Dean says, reaches out blindly for his brother, one crutch falling to the floor, but Sam just backs away further, out of reach. "Sam," Dean tries again, searches for calm, searches for words, for a way to do this. "I'm not mad," he says. "I'm just – dude, you're scarin' me. Seriously. You can't think – you can't think this is okay. Sam, you're drinking all day and you're hiding it from me. You gotta see it, you _know _better, just try to—"

But Sam's face has darkened to an angry pink and his eyes are flashing dangerously beneath his too-long bangs. "You fucking hypocrite," he spits. "Seriously, Dean, where the hell do you get off talking to me like this? You overdosed on opiates today, like a goddamn junkie, and exactly how many cigarettes have you smoked? You on your second pack of the day yet? Gonna go chew one of those fucking drug lollipops, get stoned off your ass and then accuse _me _of – of – " he stops, like he doesn't want to say what he thinks he's being accused of, shakes his head in disgust. "You goddamn fucking hypocrite."

"Sam," Dean says, shaken, "dude, the drugs – I didn't – yeah, I fucked up today, but I –" he stops, not sure how he became the one defending himself, doesn't want to say the obvious, _I was in pain, you fucking asshole, _because he's not gonna play the pity card, no.

"It's just funny," Sam says with a laugh that is anything but amused, and Dean realizes that Sam is legitimately drunk, not just buzzed, and he curses himself for not realizing it before, curses the fact that Sam is right, that he was too fucking drugged-up to notice.

"Sam," Dean says, forges ahead, because he's got to get the upper hand on this somehow, "You're right, I'm – I take drugs, I smoke too much. Okay? It's a problem. Look, I admit it. Why can't you just admit that this – this might be a problem for you?"

Sam gives a disgusted snort. "The only problem I have right now that we need to talk about is a fucking _ghost. _How about you quit acting like a fucking _cop _and pay attention to the _case_?"

"To the—to the _case_? That's hilarious, dude, coming from the guy who got drunk in the library when he was supposed to be doing research."

"Dean," Sam says, arms crossed, moved right out from enraged to infuriatingly calm. "I think maybe you should just shut the fuck up and do your job."

"_You're _my job," Dean snaps, and knows immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. A muscle in Sam's jaw twitches for a moment, and then, in one fluid motion, he's spun away from his brother and is walking out the door.

"Where the hell do you think you're going," Dean asks, starts forward, awkward with just one crutch, and Sam doesn't answer him, doesn't look at him, just keeps forward, doesn't look back. And before Dean's gotten halfway across the room, Sam's gone and the door's been slammed behind him.

Dean stands in the middle of the living room, stunned, trying to decide whether or not to go after his brother. He's probably halfway down the elevator right now, and, yeah, Dean's pretty fuckin' easy to outrun.

Dean lets out a growl of sheer frustration, picks up his cell and dials Sam's number. He answers on the first ring.

"I need some space," he says. "I'm turning my phone off."

"Sam—" Dean starts, but the line is already disconnected, and Dean's left staring at the flashing phone screen, feeling out of control and helpless in a way that feels horribly like the way he felt trying to get up the stairs of the bus. Like he's scrabbling for a foothold, a handgrip, anything, but his legs won't hold him and nothing will take his weight.

He needs a cigarette, god, he needs a cigarette, and Sam's words bite at him as he pats down his pockets for his pack, feels, yup, like the biggest hypocrite in the world, but a hypocrite who needs a smoke really fucking badly.

Fuck _you, _Sam, Dean thinks savagely. I'm gonna smoke a whole fuckin' pack by the time you get back, and then I'm gonna break your fuckin' leg and see how long _you _get by without drugs.

He realizes he's shaking with rage and worry, legs about to collapse on him if he doesn't sit down, so he turns and heads for the balcony, sidestepping the one crutch lying abandoned on the floor, 'cause if he bent down right now he'd probably fall and never get up.

Right on cue, he feels a distant ache start up in his hip again, and as he passes through the door to the balcony and sees the huge, smoggy sky stretched low above him, he thinks he would give just about anything for five minutes with wings so he could swoop down and scour the streets for his brother, bring him home.

_Come on, Sam. Just come the fuck home._


	8. Chapter 8

Dean is surprised to find that he had kind of forgotten the vagaries of the few difficult years before Sam left for Stanford. He remembered the arguments, the tension, but somehow, in the years of missing Sam so much he'd gained an almost mystical quality in Dean's mind, he'd forgotten his brother's ability to be bitingly, breathtakingly cruel; forgotten Sam's endless arsenal of spiteful, too-truthful taunts that he would fling at Dean and John like poison darts, leaving them stunned and blinking; blurry, dumb messes of confused rage who were no match for Sam's razor-sharp fury.

And Dean knows that Sam's drunk, and defensive, and thirteen thousand kinds of fucked-up, but that doesn't stop him from wondering if that's really what his brother thinks of him, if Sam thinks he's just a pill-popping pansy-assed hypocrite, leaning on the cushion of drugs instead of standing up and sucking it up, working through it like their father taught them. Hell, Dean's wondered the same thing himself, countless times. Fuck, he _hates _taking these fucking drugs, hates the way they make him feel, hates that he needs them so badly – but he _does, _he does need them, and Sam's gotta know that, right?

Dean drags a hand down his face and tries to relax into his smoke, does a rough count in his head and figures this is his fifth cigarette since Sam took off – and yeah, maybe it is a little pathetic that he's measuring time in cigarettes instead of minutes, but smoking isn't the same as drinking. Smoking isn't gonna get Sam killed, for chrissake.

He leans out over the railing of the balcony, stares into the sky, into the city sunset, all iridescent pinks and oranges and plutonium yellows, brilliant like only urban pollution can create. His meds are wearing off and the pain is threatening to come back just as strong as before, and he shifts a little to get more weight off his leg, leans a little further out, elbows looped over the top of the rail. It's been hours, and he needs to take another dose of Vicodin, but he can't stand the thought of proving Sam right, and besides, he needs to be completely clear-headed if – _when – _Sam comes back.

He's fucked shit up, lately, in terms of Sam, should have said something sooner, weeks ago, as soon as he'd realized just how much his brother's been drinking. He figured it would work itself out, figured he's enough of an annoyance as it is, without being a nag on top of it, didn't want to stress Sam out even more than he's already stressed. But jesus, his brother's been unraveling in front of him and he's been too caught-up in his own goddamn bullshit to notice, caught up in the exhausting physicality of trying to get through every day, caught up in the hunt and the pain and, ironically, caught up in mindless worry about Sam, that old, general worry, so pervasive and second-nature that he forgot to really step back and _see _his brother.

Dean shakes his head, finishes his cigarette and drops it over the edge of the railing instead of scuffing it underfoot, wants to watch it fall. He sees the still-glowing ember descend towards the street for all of one second before he loses it, and he wishes, idly, that he had something bigger to drop.

They'd lived on the sixth-floor of a run-down schoolhouse once, for a month in July when Sam was twelve. He and Sam had bought about two hundred water balloons and spent a whole afternoon tossing them off the roof, watching them plummet towards the ground and then explode in a splash of water and multi-colored latex.

Dean knocks another cigarette from his pack, lights it slowly, wonders how long it would take for a person to hit the ground from here. Two seconds? Three? Wonders if it would feel longer, if he'd really feel his life flashing before his eyes, sped-up : Fire, Sam, salt, John, guns, girls, blood, falling, fire, Sam. He wonders if he'd really ever hit the ground at all.

He realizes he's pressed to the railing, the metal edge digging right below his sternum as he hangs over, realizes that even with his bad leg it would only take one second to push himself up and over. One second and then –

A pigeon swoops down in front of him, and he feels a band that had been tight around his lungs loosen as he watches it climb higher into the sky, feels the angry pulse of his leg slow to a calm buzz. He remembers swimming in the pool, how light he felt, how his body immediately dragged him down as soon as he was free of the water. God, if water felt so good, how must air feel? Too bad there are no swimming pools of air, where you can drop in for the afternoon and float around, leave the ramifications of your fucked-up body behind and just _fly._

Wait – what the fuck is he thinking?

Of _course _there are pools of air – all around him – he's staring into one right now, a city-pool, huge and loud underneath and then bright and so calm above, with the setting sun, the blue sky, the clouds as lazy and painless as Dean could be, _can _be, if he just jumps in.

Just jump in.

:::

Thirty five minutes.

That's how long it's been since Sam stormed out of the apartment, turned off his phone, bought a flask of whiskey down the block, and had an attack of guilt and panic so strong that it left him kneeling on the sidewalk in the fading city light as pedestrians hurried past, casting him nervous glances.

Now he's sitting on the curb across the street from their apartment, staring at the door, trying to figure out what the _fuck _is wrong with him. He rolls the fight around in his head, examines what he said to Dean from every angle, but no matter how he looks at it, it just looks _bad. _Like maybe he might have accused his brother of being a drug addict – his brother, who probably couldn't get out of the fucking bed in the morning if it weren't for his medication, his brother who's already pretty tight-lipped when it comes to pain, not to mention self-conscious about everything and anything pertaining to his injury… and Sam just rubbed it cruelly in his face, probably fucked shit up irreparably.

And instead of apologizing, what does he do?

He leaves Dean alone in the apartment, where there's most likely an angry spirit gunning for him, and he _goes to the liquor store._

He looks down at his hand, at the open flask of Jack, and takes another swig, because seriously, what the fuck else is he going to do right now? He can't go back into the apartment so soon, can't admit defeat, can't stand the thought of yet another argument – and most of all, he can't face Dean. Because Sam won a full ride to Stanford and he's smart enough to know when he's in the wrong. And now? He is so very, very wrong.

He takes a drink again, kind of can't believe himself, but he can't _stop, _feels like he's looking down from a distance and shaking his head disapprovingly. But everything's fucked up, and honestly? This seems like the best answer; maybe the _only _answer.

And he knows it's not – he knows that. In fact, he thinks… he thinks it might be more of a question than an answer. Might be a… might be a problem.

Sam lets out a bark of incredulous laughter, bends over double, pulls hard on his hair with his good hand like maybe the pain will make things a little clearer, gives his bad shoulder a roll and spikes a jolt, but he still feels completely lost. Feels messy, drunk, unhinged, like everything is flying apart at the seams so fast it's like nothing was ever sewed together in the first place.

He's gotta get back into the apartment, because, fuck, he shouldn't have left Dean alone for even a minute, much less half an hour – but, god, he doesn't, doesn't, _doesn't _want to get into it again. This just isn't an argument he wants to continue. For one thing, he's too drunk to fight nice, as he's just proven, and he doesn't want to say anything else he'll regret. For another… god, there are so many "others" it makes Sam's head spin just to think about them. Or maybe that's the impressive amount of liquor he's just poured down his throat.

"Fuck," he says out loud, and it feels good, feels really good, so he says it again, tosses his head back and screams "FUCK!" at the top of his voice, doesn't give a shit if people think he's crazy, because, jesus, he _is. _

Okay, he thinks, examining the Jack in his hand. That's it. Tomorrow, he's not gonna touch a drop of alcohol, is going to prove to Dean that he's _fine_. He's just been fucking stressed lately, and so yeah, maybe he's been overdoing it a little. But, seriously, not to the extent that he needs his brother breathing down his neck like a fucking narcotics officer. 'Cause really, it's none of Dean's goddamn business, and it's nothing Sam can't handle, and it's not getting in the way except when Dean picks stupid fights about it.

He takes a deep breath, angry with his brother all over again, which he knows is unfair, but these days it seems like he knows a lot of shit but can't really do anything about any of it.

He puts the brown-bagged flask back in his jacket with careful purpose, resolves not to drink any more tonight. He's got to go back, apologize to his brother, explain that it's just he'd rather Dean not make him feel like some kind of out-of-control drug addict, thank you very much. Then maybe he can make some dinner, shove it down his brother's throat, and they can sit down and go through the case notes like reasonable human beings, because they're not getting anywhere and it's clear they're missing an important piece of the fucking puzzle.

He gives himself a moment, rubs his bleary eyes with a thumb and forefinger, and then launches himself to his feet, tries to essay his level of intoxication. He's drunk, but not any worse than drunk. He just really shouldn't drink any more. Which is fine, because he definitely is not going to.

He walks an impressively straight line across the street, narrowly misses getting hit by a dodge Neon, holds up a placating hand as the angry driver lets out a long beep.

"Sorry," he says, though the car can't hear him, but it's good to get some practice in. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

Dean's not in the living room when he walks in, but one of his brother's crutches is still lying on the floor where he'd dropped it during the argument, and Sam picks it up in white-knuckled hands, moves nervously towards Dean's bedroom.

"Dean," he calls, doesn't expect an answer, his brother's probably just smoking, nothing to worry about, because oh god if something happened and Sam wasn't there if Sam left him alone and something happens oh jesus – panic rises up in him so fast that he almost chokes on it, and he steps into a jog, flings open his brother's bedroom door so hard he thinks he may have cracked the wood.

Dean is on the balcony in one piece, and for a moment Sam is overcome with relief – until he sees the position his brother is in, hands gripping the top of the railing and his upper body slung over the rail like he's going to –

And Sam's dropping the crutch and moving faster than he would have thought possible, across the room in a shot, feet thundering towards the balcony, and for a moment it's like time has been put into a strange warp, because Sam is _running, _but through the glass door of the balcony it's almost like Dean is in slow motion, muscles bunching up under his t-shirt, arms pushing himself upward, and Sam lunges forward, grabs his brother's shirt and yanks as hard as he can.

Dean jerks backward, hands scrabbling ineffectually on the railing as he steps onto his bad leg, knee crumpling underneath him almost immediately, and Sam surges forward, gets his good arm wrapped tight around Dean's shoulders and the other pressed painfully into his back while Dean explodes into a wild struggle, kicking with his bad leg and pushing away with his good one, and Sam tries his best to hang on. He gasps in pain as Dean's hand finds a hold on Sam's forearm and he sinks his nails in, grip like a vice, but Sam doesn't release him.

"Let me _go,_" Dean says, but his voice is too calm, doesn't match the frenzy in his movements. "Now. Let me go."

"What are you doing," Sam pants in his brother's ear, "Dean, what the fuck are you doing?"

"Let me go," Dean says, the same soft, strange, voice, but he starts fighting even harder, and fuck, Dean is strong and determined and Sam has only one arm and he can feel his hold loosening.

So he issues an apology into his brother's hair and kicks as hard as he can into the back of Dean's bad knee, releases Dean for just enough time to pound his fist viciously into his bad hip.

Dean lets out a strangled cry and his whole body goes slack in Sam's arms, and Sam hooks an arm over his chest and drags him off the balcony with strength he didn't know he had, drags him into the hall outside the bedroom and drops him to the floor. He turns, slams the door to the bedroom and slides down next to his brother, ready in case Dean tries to get away.

He doesn't, though, just lies on his back with his eyes screwed closed, breath coming in quick, shuddering gasps, and Sam leans down, puts a palm across his chest, babbling mindless apologies and trying not to freak the fuck out.

Finally, Dean opens his eyes, but Sam wishes to god he hadn't, because the look he gives him is terrifying – wrath and pain and a trembling, exhausted kind of fury that turns Sam's stomach.

"Sam," he says, but as he speaks, his face changes, and his eyes go wide, and he gets an elbow underneath and pushes himself up until he's propped against the wall, Sam's huge hand still pressed across his chest.

"The fuck," Dean says, shakes his head as if to clear it. "The _fuck._"

"You," Sam tries, but his voice is unreliable, and he clears his throat. "You were going to – you were trying to –"

"I was _smoking,_" Dean says, does a pretty good impression of pissed-off, but Sam can see that he's scared too, is trying to convince himself just as much as his brother.

"You were gonna do a fucking nose dive."

"I was _smoking,_" Dean repeats. "I wasn't — I wouldn't—"

"You _did. _I _saw _you."

"Sam," Dean says, "you don't know what the fuck you saw, you're _drunk_, I was just –" but he stops, lets out a little groan and drops his head back to thwack against the wall, and Sam can see that his fingers are fisted tight in the denim of his bad leg.

"Dean," Sam says, "we gotta find this thing, we gotta find it _now._"

"It's not the spirit, Sam," Dean says. "It couldn't be. I wouldn't – it wouldn't—"

"Fuck, Dean," Sam says, exasperated. "Just 'cause you know about this shit doesn't mean you're immune. Why can't you just _admit _it when you have a problem?"

Dean looks right at him, then, and Sam swallows, curses his choice of words.

"We gotta find this thing," Sam says resolutely. "We gotta find it and then _burn _it."

"I'll agree with you on that point," Dean says, leverages a trembling finger at him in a weak parody of bravado. "Where the fuck are my crutches?"

"Are you gonna try to jump off again?"

"I didn't—" He stops at the look on Sam's face. "No."

"I'll get them," Sam says. "Don't move."

"I _can't _move," Dean says petulantly, but Sam is careful to slam the door of the bedroom behind him. He doesn't want Dean to so much as _see _the balcony.

He collects his brother's crutches, goes back out into the hall and props them up against the wall, reaches his good hand down. Dean looks at it for a moment, then grits his teeth and starts the laborious process of getting himself to his feet. His breath comes fast and Sam remembers, guilty, just how hard he'd kicked his brother a few minutes ago.

"Fuck," Dean breathes, like he can't help himself, leans against the wall for a second with his eyes closed, doesn't even look at the proffered crutches.

"You okay?" Sam asks uncertainly. "Do you – you want me to get the Actiq?"

Dean hits him with a glare so hot Sam's surprised he doesn't burst into flame.

"No."

"Dean," Sam says, words heavy in his mouth. "I didn't – what I said earlier. I didn't mean it."

"Yeah, well I did," Dean says, reaches for his crutches with a wince and starts moving forward, towards the living room. "Where'd you go just now, huh?"

"I took a walk," Sam says tightly.

"A walk," Dean repeats.

"Look, man," Sam says, feeling exhausted. "I'm not – maybe you were right, maybe I've been drinking a little too much. I admit it. And I'm gonna watch it. But I don't wanna talk about it anymore, okay? Please?"

"No," Dean says, but he leaves it at that, lowers himself onto the couch with a grimace and a harsh exhale of breath.

Sam sits across from him in the armchair, can't help but stare fixedly, watches the rise and fall of Dean's chest and thinks that if he'd come just two minutes later, his brother would have been five stories down, splashed across the pavement like a violent Pollack, and Sam – Sam isn't sure that he wouldn't have followed. God, what the hell was he thinking, leaving Dean alone? Dean _never _would have left him, not in a million years, because Dean's hot-tempered and impetuous, but Sam's apparently got betrayal down to a fucking art form.

He takes a deep breath, tries to sober up a little, because everything else might be impossible to fix, but they can damn well finish this hunt. Keep his brother safe from this, at least.

"Okay," he says, hates the instability of his voice, the slight slur of liquor, hates how even now he's hyper-aware of the weight of the bottle of Jack in his pocket. "We're missing something."

"No shit," Dean says tiredly, face pale, sweat standing out on his brow, and Sam feels his gut twist.

"Are you thinking about flying?" he can't help but ask, not as subtle as usual, but hey, it's no secret that he's had a lot to drink.

Dean shoots him a withering glare that could mean either _Yes, and I don't want to talk about it, _or _No, and even if I was, I wouldn't want to talk about it, _and Sam sighs.

"We should go through the list of people who died here in the last six months again," Sam says. "I mean, none of them really seemed like a fit, but maybe we weren't looking at it right. Maybe someone was a bird watcher or something, and we missed it, and maybe someone kept a lock of their hair lying around…"

Dean snorts, shakes his head. "You're grasping at straws, man," he says.

"Yeah, well, straws are all we—" Sam stops, watches the expression on Dean's face change. "Dude, what?"

"Lock of hair," Dean says slowly. "Where the fuck did I see…" His gaze is far away for a moment and then he snaps his fingers, looks up. "Marcella."

"Marcella?" Sam echoes doubtfully.

"Yeah," Dean says, starts to push himself up and then rethinks it, opts to just rearrange himself a little. "Marcella's apartment. Her grandson, the one who just died – there was a lock of his hair underneath his photograph."

"Okay," Sam says, trying to think. "But… why would he…?"

"He was Air Force," Dean says, drags a hand down his face. "Jesus, I saw the wings in the picture, that pin thing, you know? Christ, I can't believe I missed it, I'm such a fucking idiot."

"We need to go down there and talk to her, _now,_" Sam says.

"Fuck, yeah, we do," Dean agrees emphatically, but doesn't move as Sam pushes himself more or less steadily to his feet.

"Dean?" Sam says uncertainly, when Dean still hasn't stood a moment later.

Dean licks his lips, a strange expression on his face, and Sam's chest expands, too tight, mouth dry.

"Dude," Sam says, feels something crumble inside of him. "I didn't – if you need something, just take it. What I said – I'm an asshole, man, seriously."

"The meds aren't _fun _for me, you know," Dean says, and Sam wants to kick himself in the face.

"I know that, man."

"They make me slow and stupid and tired, and sometimes really fucking nauseous. And Vicodin kind of makes me constipated."

"Dean…"

"But they're better than the alternative."

Sam swallows around a lump in his throat. "I _know. _Fuck. I really didn't mean it, god, I really didn't. I just – I suck."

Dean looks at him for a minute. "Yeah. Long, hard and repeatedly."

"_Gross, _dude." He makes a face, looks at his brother. "You want me to get your stuff?"

"Yeah."

Sam fetches the meds, feels like the biggest dick in the world as Dean swallows his pills without looking at him.

"Maybe you should have one of these?" Sam says, holds up an Actiq.

Dean shakes his head. "I'm fine. Just help me up."

Sam leans down, pulls Dean up in a movement that's become more than familiar to both of them, Dean angling himself so he doesn't have to move his hip as much, Sam gripping just under his elbow as his brother leans on him.

"All right," Dean says, settling himself onto his crutches, gives his brother a once-over. "Scale of one to ten, dude, let's hear it. One being stone-cold sober and ten being Paula Abdul."

Sam reels back a little, starts to defend himself, but Dean cuts him off.

"We both know you've been drinking, so stow the crap. This isn't another lecture. But we're workin' a job and I need to know where you're at right now."

"About a six," Sam says after a minute. He's never been good at these scale-of-one-to-ten games, but he figures, he can touch his nose all right, walk in a straight line, all that crap. His limbs feel loose, lips a little numb, eyes not focusing as well as they could – but he doesn't think he's anything above a seven, anyway.

"Okay," Dean says, nods a little, starts crutching towards his jacket, hanging over the back of a kitchen chair. "Okay. Let's go see an old lady about a ghost."

:::

Marcella is more than happy to see them, ushers them in with flapping hands and a beaming smile that leaves Sam flushed and guilty, considering they might have to torch her grandson's remains.

Her husband is on his way out as they arrive, a short, slightly round old guy who shakes their hands like he's used to strange men coming to visit with his wife.

"Wish I could stay," he says in a tone that suggests exactly the opposite. "Promised Bern I'd go over and see his new HD television set. HD, that's high definition. Lotta pixels. You can see every pore on the actress's faces. Not so pretty when you're lookin' at their nostril hairs, you know what I mean?"

Once she's shooed her husband out, Marcella settles Sam and Dean on the couch and brings them each a slice of pie, mixed berry this time, asks if they'd like tea or coffee or maybe a beer.

Sam can feel Dean's eyes on him as his brother asks for a coffee, can feel his gaze boring a hole into the back of his head, and goddammit, Sam _wants _a beer. Really, really wants one. It'd just be one, and he'd sip it slowly, and it would taste so good, and if he'd stayed on that curb and kept drinking, his brother would be dead right now.

So he takes a coffee and tries not to think about how it'd be better with just a little bit of whiskey stirred in.

They make small talk for a while; or rather, Marcella talks and Sam listens, makes attentive noises in the appropriate pauses between stories about her husband's inflamed big toe and her musings on why there's never been a female president.

Sam can tell that Dean is trying his best to participate, but he's distracted, eyes distant, one hand flexing over his bad knee, good leg keeping a steady up-and-down rhythm, gentle so it doesn't jar his right leg too badly, but frenetic enough that Sam wants to reach over and hold him down.

He snaps to attention when Marcella mentions her granddaughter, though, and Sam can see his mind working, trying to find a way to steer her onto the topic of her departed grandson without seeming like a heartless bastard.

Sam doesn't say anything – for one thing, his head's not working as smoothly as normal, and for another, he's never been the best conversation-steerer, not like Dean. He's usually just the tell-me-everything eyes behind the operation.

"Jeannie's only eleven," Marcella is gushing, "but _so _precocious! The other day she asked me what the verb "to fellate" meant!"

"Wow," Dean says, sounds legitimately impressed_. _"What'd you tell her?"

"I told her to look it up," Marcella says primly. "She should know – but not from her grandmother."

"And Jeannie is the daughter of your…" Dean tries.

"My son," Marcella says. "My Tommy."

"Are all your grandkids from… Tommy?"

"No, just Jeannie, Elizabeth and William. The rest belong to my daughter, Katie. She's got Max, Claire… and my darling Steven, may he rest in peace." Her face crumples a little, and Sam suddenly hates his job with a passion he hasn't felt since the summer before he went to Stanford. Hates the monotony of other people's grief, hates being the one to dredge up painful subjects over and over and over. It never bothered him like this until he lost Jess, had to talk to the cops, to the Dean of students, to her parents, when all he wanted to do was lie face-down and scream himself raw.

"Ah," Dean says, makes a sympathetic noise. "Was, uh… was Steven in the Air Force?"

"Yes, yes he was," Marcella says. "It was always his dream, sweet boy – wanted to fly."

Sam feels the small hairs raise on the back of his neck.

"He was in a terrible bike accident when he was younger," Marcella continues, no prodding necessary. "Spent a long time in the hospital, even longer in a wheelchair. All he could talk about was getting back on his feet and getting into the sky."

"God," Dean chokes out, and Sam looks at him, feels his heart clench. Dean's face is pale, freckles standing in sharp relief, and suddenly Sam realizes he can chart every new line on his face, can see, like it's been sketched on his skin in graphite, exactly what pain has done to his brother. Is doing to him.

Marcella smudges a tear away from her eye with one mulberry-painted thumb, and Sam feels his own throat close up in response.

"I'm sorry," he says. "God. I can't imagine…"

"He died in the air," Marcella says. "It's what he would have wanted."

"Yeah," Dean says, voice raw, and they all fall silent for a long moment, even Marcella.

How, Sam wonders, are they ever gonna get the hair away from the mini-shrine and into a vat of lighter fluid?

Dean shifts a little beside him, and Sam turns as his brother asks, "May I use your bathroom?" His voice is suddenly steady, calm, soft, and Sam glances at him sharply.

"Can it wait?" he says, knows that's normally a question asked by parents on long car trips, and really not something a twenty-three year old guy regularly asks his twenty-seven year-old brother, but there is _no way _he's letting Dean out of his sight.

"No," Dean says placidly.

"Certainly, dear," Marcella says. "It's right down that hallway."

Dean reaches for his crutches, and his movements are too easy as he stands, too fluid, face impassive where it should be grimacing. A pulse of panic sings through Sam's blood, and he stands with his brother, feeling at once a conflicting desire to be more sober and more drunk, is unequipped to handle what he thinks is happening.

"Dean," Sam says, and his brother's going to kill him for this later, but, "Marcella's bathroom isn't, it doesn't have what you're used to. She doesn't have the bars, or anything."

"I'm sure the poor thing can _urinate _just fine," Marcella pipes up, turns to Dean. "You can lean on the sink, sweetheart. Of course, it might be a different story if you have to go number two?"

"We really should be leaving, anyway," Sam says, courtesy be damned, and he reaches out and grabs his brother by the elbow.

"Let me go," Dean says quietly, and Sam's veins go icy when he realizes it's the same tone Dean used not an hour ago, struggling against Sam's arm out on the balcony.

"No," Sam says, trying not to panic, trying to stay clear-headed. This can't be happening, not in front of Marcella, looking back and forth between the two of them, confusion blossoming on her face.

"It's the meds," Sam says desperately, tightens his grip on Dean's arm, "he gets like this sometimes, I just need to, to give him his shot, he'll be fine, c'mon Dean, come _on._"

"Ah," Marcella says wisely as Sam frantically tugs at an unmoving Dean. "Medication is a tricky thing. My husband took a painkiller for his gout last winter, and he took a pee in our refrigerator."

"Uh huh," Sam says, doesn't know _what _the fuck to do, because Dean's not trying to get away, but he isn't responding, either.

"Let me get him a glass of water," Marcella says, and _thank god, _heads into the kitchen, leaves Sam alone with Dean.

"Dean," Sam says, smacks him pretty damn hard on the back of the head. "Don't do this to me, jesus, please don't do this to me."

Dean blinks at Sam, then starts moving again with single-minded purpose, towards the bathroom, towards the fucking balcony.

"_Please,_" Sam begs, but Dean yanks his arm away, almost overbalances but doesn't stop moving forward.

"Steven," Sam whispers, a last-ditch attempt, and Dean comes to a halt, turns slowly, his eyes strangely glassy, shrewd.

"Please," Sam says fervently. "Not in your grandmother's apartment, Steven, you don't want to do that to her, please, Steven, you gotta listen to me. She loves you, you can't do this to her."

Dean stares at Sam, blinks once, and suddenly he's _Dean _again, a frown creasing his forehead.

"Sam," he says uncertainly, and Sam can see a flicker of fear in his eyes.

"We need to get the fuck out of here," Sam hisses, then straightens up as Marcella comes back in the room with a glass of water.

"Here, sweetheart," she says to Dean in a loud, clear voice. "Drink this down." She turns to Sam. "Can he understand me?"

"Can I what?" Dean says in confusion, and Sam tugs him towards the door.

"I'm sorry, Marcella, he's really confused, I just wanna get him home," Sam says, and Dean lets himself be led, doesn't have to fake the bemused expression on his face.

"I understand, dear," she says, hurrying to open the door for them as Sam presses Dean out, one hand on his shoulder.

"We'll come see you again soon," Sam says, doesn't add that it'll probably be under cover of night, courtesy of a lockpick.

"See you," Dean echoes, and Sam shoves him gently into the elevator, presses the button for the lobby.

"The fuck," Dean says as soon as the doors slide closed.

"That was _freaky,_" Sam says, slumps against the wall, jams the heel of his hand into his eye socket and rubs furiously.

"I don't… one second I'm sitting on the couch, next thing I'm up and you're telling me we've gotta go."

"It was Steven," Sam says.

"Yeah, kinda figured that out."

The elevator dings to a stop and Sam hustles them out into the lobby, gives the doorman a brief smile, doesn't rest until they're out of the apartment building and halfway down the next block. Dean's concentrating too hard on keeping up with Sam's long strides to say anything, and for once Sam is grateful, just wants to get the hell away from Steven and any height over two feet.

Finally he stops by a bench, lets his brother lower himself down and catch his breath, get the weight off his leg.

"Okay," Sam says, pacing in front of Dean, tugging at his hair. "We can't go back there 'til Steven is gone."

"Sam," Dean says, but he doesn't try to argue, just shakes a cigarette free of his pack and cups a palm around it, gets it lit after a few tries. Sam can see that his hands are shaking.

"Sit down," Dean says, takes a drag and flaps his cigarette-holding hand at him. "You're freaking me out."

Sam sinks next to him, slips a hand into his pocket and clasps his fingers around the smooth glass of the whiskey flask, takes a steadying breath. He doesn't need it. The danger is past. Dean's fine. For now.

"What happened, dude?" Sam says. "Tell me. We need to recognize the signs."

Dean scrubs a hand through his hair, sighs, takes another drag. "I dunno, man. I was… I was just sitting there."

"What were you thinking? Were you… planes? Birds? What?"

"No," Dean says. "I was just…" he shrugs, frowns down at his pack of smokes with the expression that means he's counting cigarettes and coming up short.

"Just," Sam prompts.

"I don't know," Dean says, looks exhausted.

"Okay," Sam says, reaches out and touches his shoulder tentatively. It's been a long fucking day. "We're already out – we may as well grab some dinner, talk about how we're gonna get the poor kid's hair."

"Okay," Dean says, but neither of them move.

Sam leans back, still half-drunk, hand still gripping the whiskey, thinks maybe this whole not-drinking thing is going to be a little harder than he'd bargained for. He concentrates on breathing steady, calming himself down. He watches his brother smoke, a strangely hypnotic action, steady, uninterrupted. For the first time, Sam wishes he smoked.

"What's that song?" he asks, realizes Dean is humming something under his breath, and it sounds familiar.

Dean stops, hums a few bars like he's listening to himself. "Not sure."

"I've heard it before."

"Yeah," Dean says, hums a couple more experimental notes, starts singing hesitantly, like the words are coming to him as they leave his lips. Sam listens, is always surprised at how nice his brother's voice is, sweet and strong.

"_Some bright morning, when this life is over, I'll fly away…" _

Dean trails off. Sam looks at him. He looks at Sam. Clears his throat, drops his finished cigarette to the ground.

"Let's get some food," he says, reaching for his crutches. "I'm starving."

Sam grips the bottle tighter.

:::

:::

**A/N: **"I'll Fly Away," written by Albert E. Brumley in 1929. Dean probably learned it from the _O Brother, Where Art Thou? _soundtrack. Allison Krauss and Gillian Welch: .com/watch?v=sdRdqp4N3Jw


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hello! I love you all so very much, but I've been extraordinarily busy and haven't been able to respond to reviews, but I'm reading them and appreciating them and loving them, so thank you all so much for reading! This is the penultimate chapter, by the way. Thanks again!**

**:::**

Sam's not sure how it happens, but they end up at a Tex-Mex restaurant about five blocks from the apartment, sucked in by the "Two-for-one-taco-night!" chalkboard strategically set up on the sidewalk, complete with a few hastily-sketched tacos that look more like gophers than food.

Dean knows just as well as Sam does that they can't just march into Marcella's apartment and burn her grandson's memorial to a crisp, but that doesn't stop him from grumbling as he follows Sam into the dimly-lit restaurant.

"I just can't believe we're _dining _when we should be torching," he grouses, giving the painted coyotes on the walls a disgusted once-over.

He perks up a little, though, when they're told that the restaurant has a patio out back, and they head for a table in the darkening corner, Dean settling into a chair while Sam props his crutches up against the tall, cactus-themed fence that separates the patio from the alley.

Sam fiddles with the drinks menu, zips his jacket up against the chill evening air and watches as Dean digs his cigarettes and lighter out of his jacket pocket, lines them up just-so next to the ashtray in a finicky, almost obsessive gesture that Sam can't help but snicker at a little. Dean's OCD about the weirdest things.

"What?" Dean asks, picking a fleck of tobacco off his tongue.

"Nothin'."

Dean shakes his head, does a bit of subtle leg-rearrangement and lets out a small sigh. His face has a reddish glow to it from the chili lights strung on the wooden roof of the patio, and through the waft of smoke from his cigarette Sam can see a muscle ticking in his jaw, can see the tense set of his shoulders, the way his eyes dart warily around the room. Sam can't say he feels much calmer.

The waitress comes over, a short, slightly round girl with glossy brown hair whose impressive cleavage peeks out of her lame khaki button-up, and Dean's not too distracted to give her an approving once-over and a blinding smile. She pays him little attention, though, just asks them impatiently what they'd like to drink, and Dean hesitates a moment, flicks his eyes at his brother.

"Ginger ale," he says, and Sam flushes. Dean once said that, as far he was concerned, Mexican food was just an accessory for alcohol, an excuse to drink. Tacos = beer. Beer or tequila, or rum and coke, or margaritas, or whiskey with lime; hell, even a gin and tonic would hit the…

"Sam?" Dean prompts, and Sam looks up, finds his brother's eyes glinting a warning at him.

"Coke," Sam says finally, offers the waitress a weak smile as he hands over his drink menu.

Dean beams, and Sam tries not to feel like a four year-old who just tied his shoes for the first time.

He opens his menu as Dean grinds his cigarette out into the clunky glass ashtray, lights another one with a hiss and a snap of the Zippo. He seems a little unfocused, eyes trained somewhere beyond their table, not really looking at anything.

"Hey," Sam says, tries not to sound as worried as he feels. "When you… I mean, when – are – do you—"

"Dude," Dean says, raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"When the ghost – Steven – when Steven's uh, _in _you… do you know it's coming? Or is it just, BAM, and he's in there?"

"Kinky," Dean smirks, and for a moment Sam doesn't think he's gonna answer. Then he rubs a hand down the thigh of his bad leg, shakes his head. "Quit worrying, man. I know the signs now, and I'm not gonna let it go there again."

"Dean," Sam says, frustration bubbling up inside of him, "it's not about you _letting _anything. You can't _stop _a ghost from possessing you if it wants to."

"Then let's talk about how we're gonna finish this, huh?" Dean says, jabs his cigarette angrily in the general direction of Sam's face. "Instead of sitting here biting our nails like we've never seen a freakin' spirit before."

"We're gonna break into Marcella's apartment tonight, steal the hair, and turn it to ash," Sam says. "Duh."

Dean looks a little pained. "We can't just _take _an old lady's only token of her dead grandson."

"Uh, yeah, we can? When her grandson's a vicious fucking evil spirit, we can."

"Harsh."

"_Harsh?_ You're kidding, right?"

"I just wouldn't call him vicious," Dean protests. "It's not – it's not about that."

Sam looks at him incredulously. "Not about _what?_"

"Not about killing people," Dean says, flushing red.

"You wanna tell me what it _is _about?"

Dean shakes his head, puffs smoke. "Look," he says, "I'm not arguing we've got to end the poor guy. I just…" he trails off as the waitress approaches.

"You boys ready to order?" she asks, setting down their drinks, and Dean tries another grin, a little less sleazy this time, warmer, more real. The corner of her mouth quirks up, and her face relaxes a little as she returns the smile, clearly unwilling but unable to help herself. For some reason, it brings a lump to Sam's throat, that easy grin Dean's been handing out to women since before Sam understood what it meant. He realizes that his brother doesn't really smile much, these days.

"I'll take the steak quesadilla," Dean says. "Extra guacamole, if you could."

"You want the meal or the appetizer?"

"What's the difference?"

"Meal comes with rice and beans."

"I'll take the appetizer," he says, and Sam makes a mental note to make sure he finishes every goddamn bite.

"For you?" she asks, turns to Sam.

"Uh," he says, floundering, because he really hasn't had a chance to look at the menu yet. "Do, uh, do you have burritos?"

"Yeah," she says, like maybe he's a little slow.

"A big one?" he hedges. "Can I have a really big burrito?"

She looks at him for a minute, then laughs, really laughs, pretty eyes crinkling and hidden dimples busting out in her cheeks, and Sam thinks, a propos of nothing but the sight of her breasts straining against her shirt, that yeah, he really needs to get laid. And he can't remember the last time he had a thought like that, and it stuns him into a nervous chuckle.

"Yeah, honey," she says. "You can have a really big burrito. You want chicken? Steak? Seafood?"

"Chicken," Sam says, grinning reluctantly as she takes his menu. "And... stuff on the side."

"Stuff on the side," she repeats, nodding. "Thing is, we got a lotta sides. They're, y'know, on the menu." She points with her pen, mock-sarcastic, but she's still smiling.

"Surprise me," Sam suggests.

"Illiteracy," Dean says with a long-suffering sigh. "It's a bitch."

"Shut up," Sam grumbles as the waitress laughs again, shakes her head as she walks away.

"Cute," Dean comments, watching her retreat.

"I like girls," Sam says thoughtfully before he can stop himself, because yeah, still a little drunk, here.

"Glad to hear it," Dean says with a smirk. "But you know, Sammy, no matter what choices you make, I'll always support you."

"No, I just mean…" Sam rolls his eyes. "They're… I miss hanging out with them."

"_Hanging out?_ That some kinda college-boy code?"

"Unlike a certain complete and total jerk I know, I enjoy females for reasons other than … _that_. At Stanford I hung around with mostly girls."

"That's 'cause _you're_ mostly girl."

"Fuck you, dude. You're missing out. Girls're more fun. Smarter. My best friend, Allie – you didn't meet her, she's in the Gambia right now – she's probably the smartest person I've ever met in my life. Studies international development, but not the kind where – I mean, it's a tricky field, you know? And the people who go into it can be really condescending, _third-world country _this and _Western civilization _that, but she's studying all these ways of preserving local knowledge, of melding traditional systems of education with, I don't know, more globally recognized systems, and she's doing some amazing stuff with language schools."

Sam stops, realizes suddenly that Dean probably doesn't give a shit about any of this, and he flushes, waits for his brother to make some wiseass remark. But Dean's nodding a little, head cocked like he's listening as he shakes another cigarette out of his pack.

"She comes back in June," Sam says. "Maybe… maybe we could stop and visit. You'd like her, man. Though I dunno if she'd like _you._"

"She the one who called the day we left Palo Alto?"

"Yeah, that was her."

"She sounded funny. Made you laugh."

"She's _hilarious._"

Dean grins a little, shakes his head like this is the strangest conversation he's ever had, and Sam realizes that he talks about Stanford about as much as Dean talks about the three years he was hunting alone with Dad. Which is to say, never. It feels good, and bizarre, reminding himself that there's a whole world out there that he lived in for a while, and, who knows, if he doesn't die before they find this fucking demon, a world that maybe he can go back to. Jess was… god, he loved Jess so fucking much, but she wasn't everything. It hurts to admit it, but that bright, almost unimaginable world still exists, even though she's not in it. He doesn't know if he's realized that, until now, and it gives him… it gives him hope.

And for some bizarre reason, it's this last thought that has him grinding his teeth, hyper-aware of the weight of the flask in his pocket all over again. This just feels _stupid, _this no-drinking thing. He just watched his brother get possessed by a suicidal spirit, for chrissake… anyone in their right mind would need a drink after that. Just one, to steady his nerves a little – just one isn't gonna hurt him. He'll give it up tomorrow. And Dean can't get into any trouble sitting in public like this, so it's _fine. _

"Okay," he says, starts to push himself to his feet. "I'm going to the bathroom. The food always comes when I'm in the bathroom."

Dean nods, flicks ash towards the ashtray, though he misses.

"You…" Sam hesitates. "You gonna be okay?"

His brother fixes him with a disbelieving glare. "No, Sam, I'm going to leap from the chair and plummet two feet to my death."

Sam winces. "Right. Okay."

"Hey, if you see the waitress, ask her for a cup of coffee?"

"Sure," Sam says, backs away, tries not to feel guilty, because he's not _lying, _and he's not _hiding _anything. He's just… well, he's just… just…

You know.

Yeah.

:::

Sam was right. The food comes about a minute after he's left the table, and Dean's stomach gives a surprising little growl as soon as he sees the guacamole, despite the fact that he feels a bit queasy, whether from nerves or the meds or whatever, he doesn't know. He finishes his cigarette, examines his plate, tries to remember if he's supposed to eat the quesadilla with a fork or with his hands, like pizza. Has it really been that long since he's had Mexican?

He settles on hands, is partway through a pretty delicious steak-filled triangle when Sam comes back, grins when he sees the plates.

"Told you."

Dean grunts, plucks at a string of cheese that's currently connecting his chin with his left hand. "That's a big burrito."

"Yeah," Sam says, fork in hand, hovering around like he's not sure where to start. "Can I have some of your guacamole?"

Dean flaps a permissive hand, and for a while they're quiet, focused on eating. The fierce ache of Dean's leg has abated, for the time being, and he's grateful, because Sam's not the only one worried about possession – Dean'sbeen trying to figure out the pattern, going back through the past few days and trying to parse out the moments in which he'd been the most vulnerable, moments he'd been seriously contemplating how good the air would feel rushing past his face as he _plunged towards certain doom, _for chrissake. And he's pretty sure it's when his leg's been hurting the worst.

He knows, rationally, that any ghost who's body-hopping and sending people to their deaths is probably qualified as _evil, _or at the very least _vengeful, _but (and Dean hates, hates, _hates_ to use this word) there's something about Steven's _vibes_ that just doesn't seem… malevolent. It feels almost peaceful; good.

Hopeful.

'Cause Dean's not stupid, and he knows his leg's never gonna get much better than it is right now – and sometimes, sometimes it really scares the shit out of him to think about it, to think about going through the rest of his life in this kind of constant pain, never taking another unassisted step, always relying on someone or something to help him – but just because he hates it doesn't mean he hasn't accepted it. He has. He knows he's stuck like this.

But there's still that tiny part of him that goes to sleep at night thinking _what if, _what if I wake up in the morning and I can get out of bed without doping myself up first, can strap on my sneakers and go for a run, pound some fucking pavement till my lungs burst. Dean knows it's impossible, but it's always there, that miniscule, tenacious part of him that keeps thinking _maybe, _keeps hoping against hope for some kind of miracle, medical or supernatural, it doesn't matter. And that one grain of hope hurts more than the entirety of his fucked-up leg. It's what makes waking up in the morning so goddamn difficult, that moment between sleep and wakefulness where his whole body's thinking _Today's the day – _until he tries to move and is reminded clearly and painfully that, no, today's not the day, there's never gonna _be _a day.

And it's as if the ghost – Steven – has learned precisely how to mimic that exact moment, that amazing, lazy hopefulness, embodied in the huge expanse of sky. And the kicker is, Steven's right. If Dean wants a way out of this body, he can get out. He's pretty goddamn sure that he doesn't want to die, but get the fuck out of this body? Yeah. That, he wants.

He's suddenly overcome with a surge of rage, has to sit back a little from the table so he doesn't pound a fist into his sour cream, because, you know what? _Fuck you, _Steven. Fuck you. You are an evil sonofabitch after all.

"Hey," Sam says, pauses in his slow and steady demolishment of Burrito the Hun to look at Dean. "You good?"

"Yeah," Dean says, hand clamping down over his cigarettes. "Just need a break from this." He waves at his dinner.

"A break?" Sam says skeptically, eyeing his plate. "Dude, you haven't even eaten half."

"Smoke break," Dean says, plucking a cigarette from the near-empty pack.

Sam tightens his lips a little, and for a moment looks so desperately unhappy that it hits Dean like a physical blow.

"Sam," he says, reaches a hand over the table and grabs his brother's wrist. "Hey. What's wrong?"

"You need to eat," Sam says, stares at Dean from under his too-long bangs with the kind of shaky, determined anguish he's been practicing since he was four years old. "You need to stop smoking for five minutes, and eat your dinner."

"I will," Dean says, doesn't understand exactly why his brother's so upset. "I have been."

"I just can't—" Sam breaks off, shakes his head fiercely, reaches for his Coke and takes a long swig, knuckles white where they grip the glass. Dean's pretty sure it's not Coke Sam wishes he were drinking, and he feels his throat constrict a little.

"Okay," Dean says, rests his just-lit cigarette in the ashtray and turns back to his plate. "I'll eat, Sammy. Okay? You're right."

"Okay," Sam says. "I'm sorry, I just – I just need you to—"

"I will," Dean says, takes a huge bite of his quesadilla even though the food suddenly tastes like ashes in his mouth. Christ. He's supposed to be taking care of Sam, and here his little brother feels like he has to play babysitter, make sure Dean doesn't fuck anything else up, because apparently, he's incapable of taking care of Sam _or _himself.

He needs to be more aware of this shit, needs to eat even when he doesn't feel like eating, needs to try and regulate the amount he smokes, at least in front of Sam, because the very last thing Sam needs is more fucking worry. It's Dean's goddamn fault that Sam's been drinking, and he needs to get his act together before either one of them goes off the deep end.

He wonders if Sam thinks about alcohol the way he thinks about cigarettes, if he gets the same craving, the itch, deep and unstoppable. Dean had gone online a few weeks ago, when he'd finally admitted to himself how fucking much Sam seemed to be drinking, and he'd read a bunch of "How to Tell if Your Loved One is an Alcoholic" pamphlets. He doesn't think Sam's quite there – hopes to god Sam's not quite there – but he'd checked off a hell of a lot of the little boxes. He thinks, in clinical terms, that Sam has an _alcohol abuse _problem, but he's not quite an alcoholic. Is pretty sure his brother wouldn't get those tremble-things, wouldn't hallucinate a beach full of killer crabs like in that D.A.R.E video he'd been forced to watch in high school. But he's getting there. And it's kind of scaring Dean shitless.

So the very least he can do is finish his fucking quesadilla.

:::

When they walk back to the apartment, it's fully dark, and Sam takes it slow, matches his steps to Dean's crutched ones. Dean doesn't swing himself like Sam's done when he's needed crutches in the past; he sort of walks, more or less, leads with his good leg and brings the bad up to follow. It's quicker than when he uses his cane, but it's certainly not a fast procedure, and it takes them a good twenty some-odd minutes to walk the five blocks back. Sam can tell from the careful way Dean's handling himself that his leg has started hurting again, medication wearing off.

"So, we really shouldn't go back to the apartment," Sam says when they're a block away. "It's only eight o'clock. No way is Marcella gonna be asleep yet, and I don't think it's such a good idea for you to be around heights."

Dean stops walking, and for a moment Sam's sure he's gonna get yelled at, but Dean just juts his chin in the direction of the convenience store he's stopped in front of, says, "Gotta buy cigarettes."

Sam follows him in, blinks a little in the fluorescent lights. Dean asks for two packs of Camels at the counter, rolls his eyes when he's by carded by the condescending, pimpled young man at the desk. "Do I look under 18 to you? No, don't fuckin' answer that."

Dean pays, starts towards the door, then stops abruptly in front of a display of shaggy teddy bears and slightly wilted flowers, shifts his weight off his leg and starts to chew his lip, eyes scanning the petals.

"I like tulips," Sam puts in helpfully, grins and jumps back as Dean swats him with a crutch.

"Listen," Dean says in a thoughtful tone. "I don't really feel like hanging around on benches for the next, I dunno, five hours until we're sure Marcella's asleep. I also don't like the idea of you goin' in there alone."

"Why would I—"

"'Cause I'm not exactly stealthy, dude," Dean says reasonably. "My tip-toeing days are over; I'd wake them up. You've heard the noise my crutches make on those wooden floors. They're like drums."

"Yeah," Sam says, thinking of the hollow echo. "You're right, I guess. But I don't really see any other option."

"Well, what about this," Dean says. "We buy her flowers – those pink ones are kinda nice. And we take 'em up to her, you ask if you can leave one on the memorial, you snag the hair, we hustle outta there, and poof. Goodbye, Steven."

"Yeah," Sam says slowly. "That could – that could work."

"So, the pink ones? We could buy one of these bears, too – maybe snip off some of that fur and exchange it for the hair?"

Sam doesn't know what his face looks like, but he thinks it's probably an accurate representation of the horror he feels, because Dean's eyes go big and he says gently, "Kidding, Sam. I was kidding."

:::

Marcella is so overjoyed by the flowers that Sam kind of feels like he should be going to confession for conning her like this. One glance at Dean's guilty face and he knows his brother's not feeling too much better.

"My god, but they're _beautiful,_" she says, holds them away from herself to get a better look. They'd settled on a medley of roses and – well, the only flower they can identify for sure are roses, but the others ones are pretty, too, and that's what counts.

"Very nice," her husband says approvingly as she thrusts the flowers towards him, and then retreats into his bedroom to watch television, which he turns up so loudly that it echoes through the whole apartment.

"Look at this blue rose," Marcella breathes. "So _exotic. _I've never seen anything like it!"

Sam refrains from telling her that it's been dyed.

She tries to lead them to the couch, despite their protests that they can't stay, just came to drop off the flowers, and she clucks over Dean's leg for a few minutes until they finally convince her that they'd rather remain standing.

"Uh," Sam says, gestures awkwardly at the makeshift memorial on the other side of the living room. "We really can't stay, but do you mind – I thought I could maybe put a flower down? For Steven?"

"_Oh_," she says, and if Sam didn't already feel like the biggest jerk in the whole world, he does now, because her eyes fill with tears. "You boys are just the sweetest, most wonderful… of _course _you can. Take the blue rose. Steven always loved blue."

Sam glances at Dean, needs that moment of solidarity to assure himself that they're not Bad People, but Dean's not looking at him. In fact, Dean's _not there. _

"Dean!" Sam barks before he can hold it back, and Marcella takes a step away from the volume and panic in his voice.

"He's right over there, dear," she says, and Sam whirls to see his Dean's back retreating down the hallway.

"I'm sorry," Sam says, "could you excuse—?" And he lunges after his brother.

It's three long steps and then he can reach out, grab Dean's shoulder and twist him around so he can see his face.

"What the hell, dude," Dean says, and if Sam didn't know him so well he'd say he was just annoyed, but there's that flicker of uncertainty in his green eyes, and that's all Sam needs.

"C'mon," he says in an undertone, "we're getting out of here."

"No," Dean says, wrenches his shoulder from Sam's grasp. "We gotta—"

"Where were you going just now?" Sam demands.

"The – the bathroom, lay off me, I had to take a—"

"No," Sam says, tries to press down the panic, but it presses him right back, and he tightens his grip on Dean's arm. "I'm not lettin' you go."

"Why?" Dean asks, voice soft, and suddenly, with a shiver that runs from his head and all the way down his spine, Sam knows it's not Dean he's talking to anymore. "You think you're doing him a favor? Keeping him here in this hell?"

"W-what?" Sam stammers, so taken aback that he relaxes the hold he has on Dean.

"Do you know what this is like?" not-Dean whispers, his eyes glowing unnaturally. "Do you have _any idea_?" He yanks his arm away, steps back, but the spirit is still constrained by the limitations of Dean's body, and he stumbles a little, enough for Sam to grab him again and slam him to the wall, cursing the sling that keeps one arm immobilized.

"What's going on?" Marcella asks from behind him.

"Little problem," Sam grits out, muscles straining from the effort of keeping Dean pressed against the wall. "Bad—meds—again—" He can't think of another excuse.

"You've really got to switch!"

"Yeah," Sam says. "Please, don't – he'll be embarrassed if he knew you were watching—"

"Oh, of course!" she says, and Sam turns his head for just enough time to see her flutter into the kitchen.

"Get out of my brother," Sam says, snapping his head back to face – whoever. "_Now._"

"It _hurts _in here," Steven says. "It doesn't hurt to fly. It feels – it feels amazing. It's like nothing else."

"Yeah, well, it fucking hurts to hit the ground," Sam snarls, and attempts to manhandle his brother towards the door, but the crutches drop from his hands and come up tight around Sam's throat, and Sam doesn't have a free hand to pry them away, not if he wants to keep his grip on his brother. Steven's not choking him, but the pressure is just enough that Sam has trouble breathing.

"I don't want to hurt you," Steven says in Dean's voice. "But I will, to set him free."

"It's not free," Sam gasps. "You're killing these people. Jesus, you're killing them."

"No," Steven says, a flicker of confusion on Dean's face. "I'm not. I'm helping them. I'm _saving _them. I'm a hero. They gave me medals."

"This isn't the Air Force," Sam says. "These people don't want to fly. My brother doesn't want to fly."

"Yes, he _does,_" Steven says, almost petulant, and for just a moment Sam can hear the twenty year-old kid behind the spirit, shot down from the sky when all he wanted to do was fly. All he wanted to do was help people. For a moment he feels his heart go out to the guy – and then the pressure increases on his windpipe and he's not feelin' so sympathetic anymore.

"You don't know," Steven says. "You can't imagine your body being your prison, tying you the ground like an anchor. Your brother wants to let it go."

"No," Sam rasps, trying to keep his hand clasped around Dean's bicep, knows they're at a stalemate, because Dean can't go anywhere without his crutches, which he can't use while his hands are wrapped around Sam's neck. "Dean – he doesn't. He's strong. He doesn't let shit go. He's holding on, can't you – don't you feel it? _You're _hurting him. It's _you_."

For a moment he sees Dean's face hesitate, and hope rises in his chest, but _come on, Winchester,_ when has arguing with a spirit ever gotten you anywhere?

"I'm going to set him free," Steven says, and presses his thumbs into Sam's trachea.

_Really?_ Sam thinks. I have to do this _again? _Spirits are _stupid._

And he kicks his brother in the knee as hard as he can. Which is pretty fucking hard.

Steven's hands drop from his throat with a hoarse cry, and he falls backwards while Sam scrabbles desperately at his sling, manages to rip open the Velcro and tuck it into his belt as Dean's still trying to get himself upright, but Sam doesn't give him the chance, just spins him around and hooks both arms under his armpits and clasps him around the chest, starts dragging. The movement pulls his shoulder a little, but the sling was due to come off in a few days, anyway, and with two arms Steven doesn't stand a chance against him, not with Dean's bad leg holding him back. _Holding him down. _

"Marcella," Sam calls, and Marcella emerges from the kitchen, blinks at the sight of Dean, struggling weakly in Sam's grasp, little gasps of pain grunting from his throat, and Dean doesn't know if it's Steven or Dean in there, but god, that must have hurt like a bitch, makes his heart thump painfully in his chest. "Marcella, could you grab my brother's crutches and toss them out into the hall? Please?"

He hears the desperation in his own voice, and Marcella doesn't hesitate, hurries towards him with the crutches and opens the door, lets Sam drag Dean through and then hastily tosses the crutches towards them.

"You poor dears," she says sadly. "If you need a tranquilizer for him, I've got a few extras that we used for our cat when we took her to the vet. I'm sure a person could take them, too, if he took a lot."

"That's okay," Sam says, thanks every lucky star he's ever had that Marcella is batshit fucking crazy and is taking this all in stride.

"If you're sure," she says, hovering in the foyer, and Sam, pardon his rudeness, slams the door closed on her with his foot. His arms are too full of brother to do it with his hands.

"Dean?" he asks doubtfully, trying to prop him up against the wall to get a good look at him.

"God," Dean groans, undoubtedly himself again. "Shoulda let the bastard kill me. Christ, my _knee. _Oh, holy shit, oh my god."

"I'm sorry," Sam says, verging on hysteria. "I didn't know what else to do. I didn't burn the – I couldn't, you were—"

Dean reaches up an arm, and Sam has no idea what the hell he's trying to do until his hand clasps around the big, red, metal fire alarm that's right by his head.

"What—" Sam starts, but that's when Dean yanks it, and a shrill, piercing noise fills the air immediately, drilling into his ears with such intensity that Sam has to exercise all his willpower not to drop his brother and clap his hands over his ears.

People start to stream out into the hallway immediately, shouting to one another over the noise, jogging towards the stairs. Marcella opens the door after a few moments, followed by her husband, who looks alarmed – she merely looks excited.

"Oh," she says, sees Sam and Dean, Dean still barely keeping his feet, sagging against the wall, Sam's hands fisted in his shirt the only thing that's keeping him upright. "Do you boys need any help?"

"No," they says together, and she gives them a doubtful look before allowing her husband to lead her to the stairs.

"Go," Dean says as soon as they're out of sight. "Go burn the goddamn thing right the fuck now."

Sam hesitates, doesn't want to leave his brother just in case, but yeah, this has got to end here.

"Sorry," he says, lets go, and as expected, Dean slithers to the floor, doesn't even try to hide the moan of pain. Just for good measure, Sam kicks away the crutches.

He ducks inside the apartment, where the alarm is even shriller and more piercing, if that's even possible, and makes his way over to the memorial. He pauses for a moment, looks at the picture of Steven, smiling confident and handsome and blond and _young, _and then he grabs the lock of hair, heads into the kitchen, drops it into the sink, empties the salt shaker he finds on the counter, and lights it on fire. It goes up in a whoosh of flames, crackling and writhing like only burning hair can, and Sam watches it, watches the ribbon holding it together blacken and furl.

He washes the ashes down the sink, then gets the hell out of there.

"It's done," Dean says as soon as he sees Sam. "Dude, it's over. I can – I can feel it."

"Thank _fuck,_" Sam says with feeling, reaches out and hauls his brother to his feet as the fire alarm stops screaming.

"Firemen'll be here any second," Dean says. "Thank christ we live down the hall."

Sam reaches down without preamble, hauls Dean to his feet and hands him his crutches, though he does more dragging than Dean does walking, hauls him the twenty or so feet to their apartment down the hall, just as booted feet start echoing up the stairwell.

Sam manhandles Dean inside, locks the door behind them, dumps his brother on the couch.

"It's done," he says. "You're sure. You're one hundred percent absolutely not-a-doubt-in-your-mind positive that he's gone."

"I'm sure," Dean says, closes his eyes. "Jesus. Did you kick me in the knee?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "I'm really sorry. How do you _know _it's over?"

"'Cause I'm not thinking about birds. 'Cause I never wanna get in a plane ever again. 'Cause I kinda feel like I might die if I don't smoke a cigarette, but the thought of gettin' out on that balcony is even worse. Trust me. It's _over._"

"Okay," Sam says, slowly allowing himself to relax. "I'll get you some ice."

He packs a dishtowel full of ice, stares long and hard at the liquor cabinet, then brings the ice out to his brother, who's sucking on an Actiq, face pale. Dean presses the ice to his knee, over his jeans, leans forward a little, breathes deep.

"Dean," Sam says. "That was pretty fucking stressful."

"No shit."

"And I really need – I'd really like a drink."

Dean goes still, looks up at him with a carefully neutral expression. "I'm not your boss, Sam."

"I know that. I just don't want any shit from you. Not right now. I'm just giving you a heads-up. I'm gonna go into the kitchen, and I'm gonna come back out with the whiskey."

Dean makes a strange, helpless gesture with his hands. "I don't really know what you want me to say, here."

"Nothing. I don't want you to say anything."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Dean _wants _to say something, fuck, he really does, especially when it becomes pretty clear that Sam's not really planning to _stop _drinking after he's started, but he doesn't really know what he can say that he hasn't said before.

So he watches Sam drink his way through the Jack, slow but steady, watches his little brother get progressively drunker, neither of them talking much, as if Sam's demand that he say nothing has silenced them both.

He doesn't really know what the fuck to do, so he does nothing. _Stellar _plan of action.

He's dozing on the couch, exhausted but not willing to go to bed and leave his brother like this, when Sam says, "Dean."

"Wzzhuh?" he asks, blinking awake.

"Did… did you wanna… jump?"

"Sam," Dean says. "Ghost possession, remember?"

"Yeah," Sam says, shakes hair out of his eyes, "yeah, but no. No. _You. _Steven said you… said you wanted out. Do you? D'you want out?"

"Are you – are you asking me if I wanna kill myself?"

"Yeah," Sam whispers, and Dean realizes that sometime in the interim after Dean dozed off, Sam's gone from drunk to _wasted. _

"No," Dean says, pushes himself up on the couch a little. "No, Sam, I don't want to kill myself. Dude. No. I wouldn't – I would never do that to you. How could you think that?"

"But you hurt y'rself alla time, Dean, how'm I s'posed to..." Sam throws his hands up a little.

"Hurt myself? What are you talking about?"

"Your leg, man… but you hunt, 'n we can' even go onna vacation… an' you don' eat, 'n…" Sam weaves his fingers through his hair. "Fuck, Dean, 'm drunk, but… 's true, you hurt y'rself an' I can't do shit."

"Sam," Dean says, at a loss. "Sam, it ever occur to you that _you're_ hurting yourself, too? Hurting me?"

"What?" Sam gives him a look full of such distress that Dean almost reins himself in, but, no. He's gotta say it.

"The drinking, Sam. Are you trying to kill yourself? You drank that whole freakin' handle of Jack by yourself, dude, and we bought it, what, three days ago? That's not okay. It's not okay, Sam. I'm not gonna pretend it is."

"'M fucking up," Sam says miserably, drags a hand across his face. "Dean, 'm fucking up an' I don't know how… I don't know how to stop, it's like… I _want _it. I want it. I don't wanna stop."

"Sam," Dean says, stomach churning. "You _have _to stop. You can't – you wanna end up like those old hunters we've known? Broken-down, crippled, alcoholic sons of bitches? You wanna be like that?"

"Y'r on yr way," Sam says accusingly. "'Not jus' me, Dean. You can't _walk. _It doesn't have to – lossa people can't walk, 'n they're fine, maybe happy, fuck do I know… But this life… jus', what're we _doing, _y'know? 'M – I don't even know what we're doing."

Dean pushes a hand through his hair, wishes he weren't so fucking tired, wishes the meds weren't coursing so strong through his blood. He feels pretty ill-equipped to deal with Existentialist Sam right now.

"Sam," he starts, but the look on Sam's face stops him. "What's wrong?"

"'M gonna…" Sam says, then lurches to his feet and makes a beeline for the bathroom. A few moments later, Dean hears the sound of retching.

"Oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding me," he mutters, but manages to get himself to his feet, edges into the bathroom to find Sam clinging to the toilet bowl.

"You okay?" he asks, and Sam looks up at him with big, misery-filled eyes before turning back to the toilet and expelling a sizeable wave of vomit.

"O-kay," Dean says, props his crutches up on the wall and slides himself down till he's sitting on the tile next to his brother, puts a tentative hand on his back. "You see what I mean, Sam? You gotta stop drinking."

His answer is another impressive typhoon of puke.

Dean sighs, reaches over and pulls Sam's hair off of his sweaty forehead, holds it there as Sam gags again. Dean kind of – he kind of wants to cry. Or scream. Or sleep. Anything but sit here and watch his little brother leave him in a way that has nothing to do with Stanford or physical presence.

"I hate this," Sam whimpers in between retching. "I hate it, I hate it."

"Yeah," Dean says soothingly. "Puking sucks."

"No, I just – I hate it."

"Yeah," Dean says again, pretends like the lump in his throat isn't gonna choke him. He needs a cigarette so badly he can feel the tremble start up in his fingers, the craving fasten itself around his chest.

"Hey, Sam," he says, thinks he's probably gonna regret this in the morning, but Sam probably won't remember anyway. "If I try and quit smoking, will you stop drinking?"

Sam looks up at him, eyes round. "Yeah," he says, then buries his face back in the toilet bowl.

Dean retraces his steps a little. "How 'bout if I just cut back?"

"We could have a club," Sam says, and barfs again.

"Okay," Dean agrees, rubs Sam's back, shifts his weight a little on the hard tile floor. "We'll have a club. Jesus, you're a dork."

Sam whimpers a little, and Dean's pretty sure it's not from the stinging insult.

"I hate this," Sam whispers again, and Dean closes his eyes tightly, bangs his head back against the wall.

"I know, Sammy," he says. "Me too."


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: I honestly cannot tell you enough how shocked I am that you guys seem to like reading this stuff as much as I like writing it. Seriously, thanks so much for reading and commenting and making me feel like Dean in a pie shop (read: TOTALLY PSYCHED). You're amazing.

:::

Sam wakes up feeling like he spent the night licking the inside of a sewer main. His mouth tastes so horrible that for a minute he doesn't even notice the pounding in his head, but then he sits up and all of a sudden it's pretty damn hard to ignore.

He groans a little, squints at the light coming in through his window, sees a glass of water and a couple of aspirin sitting beside his bed.

He offers a silent thank-you to his brother and then downs them, slumps back against the headboard a little and tries to remember if he remembers getting into bed. He remembers puking, though he wishes he didn't, and he remembers saying… fuck, he doesn't know exactly what, but he knows it wasn't anything he should have given voice to.

He scrubs a hand through his hair, doesn't want to go out and face his brother. How the hell did he let himself get so drunk? Dean's gonna kill him. Fuck. Fuck.

Sam pushes himself upright, does a moment of reconnaissance work. He's still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, which needs to be remedied as soon as possible, and he vaguely remembers his brother dragging him off of the toilet and pulling the blankets up around him. Which he appreciates, sure, but he really wishes Dean had made him brush his teeth, too.

He climbs slowly out of bed, grits his teeth against the surge of nausea that accompanies the movement, and carefully strips off his vaguely puke-scented clothes, tugs on some clean boxers and jeans, wiggles into a t-shirt, leaves the sling off for the first time in two weeks. Takes his time, because, yeah, he's really not looking forward to facing his brother.

Once he's finished, he opens the door cautiously, looks left and right. He doesn't see Dean anywhere, so he edges towards the bathroom, makes it without being spotted. He brushes his teeth fast and hard, scrubs his tongue and gulps some water from the faucet. He leans against the sink for a minute, stares at himself in the mirror, his too-long hair, dark circles under his eyes. He looks like shit.

He leaves the bathroom quietly, thinks that maybe Dean is still asleep, but then he hears a clatter from the kitchen. He follows the sound cautiously, reluctantly, is surprised to find his brother leaning up against the stove, stirring something in a pan.

"Morning, sunshine," Dean says easily, casts a glance over his shoulder. "There's some fresh coffee over there, if you want."

"Thanks," Sam says, fetches a mug, feels supremely awkward in the face of his brother's nonchalance. "What time is it?"

"Little after eleven."

"Eleven?" Sam pauses as he's pouring cream. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Why would I?" Dean asks. "Not like we got anything to do for the next couple hours."

Sam guesses he's right, but still, it feels sloppy, waking up so late.

"What're you doing?" Sam asks, sitting, squinting towards the stove.

"Omelet," Dean says. "Tomato, bacon, cheddar."

Sam's favorite. He flushes, looks down at his hands. He doesn't really get why Dean's being nice to him – he thought he was gonna get yelled at, sure as hell doesn't deserve an omelet and a cup of coffee.

Dean leans on the counter, pulls himself over to the spice cabinet with a little shuffle-hop, starts rifling through it. His movements are strangely hitched, something off, and Sam frowns.

"Dean – did – did I fuck up your knee?"

"Uh – my knee's fucked-up, dude."

"Yeah, but – you're walkin' kind of—"

"Locked the brace," Dean says shortly. "Keep it straight, for a while." He cuts Sam off before he can start apologizing. "Not your fault, Sam, seriously – I'd rather have a sore knee than be pavement jam."

Sam winces a little, takes a sip of his coffee. Rests his pounding head on his hand. Dean's jauntiness is just a little too... jaunty to be real. It's the only thing that makes Sam think that maybe Dean's feeling just as weird as he is.

"Where's your sling?" Dean asks, brows drawing together.

"Took it off. Shoulder's fine – a little stiff. Just gotta work it, get it back into shape."

"How you feelin' besides the shoulder?" Dean asks, shakes something into the pan.

"Uh," Sam says. "Shitty?"

"Ha. I bet."

Sam bristles, gets ready to defend himself, but Dean just says, "Hey, you wanna come grab these, bring them to the table?"

"Sure," Sam says, comes over to take the plates, gives a deep sniff. Despite his stomach's unpleasant burble of protest, it smells good. He's not really the kind of guy who ever loses his appetite, no matter how hung over he is.

Dean follows Sam over to the table, eases himself down into a chair and lays his crutches against the wall. His leg sticks straight out in front of him, held immobile by the brace, and he maneuvers himself around a little so it's propped up off to the side.

Sam starts eating, hesitantly at first, then with a little more gusto. His brother's a good fucking cook, even if it's just omelets.

Dean's eating too, slow but steady, bringing forkfuls to his mouth with a kind of focused, hypnotic regularity, and it's weird to watch him and remember the way he used to eat, making little noises of pleasure, destroying whatever was in front of him. Sam still doesn't really understand where his brother's appetite went, though he guesses it's hard to eat when you're in pain, and he'd mentioned the meds making him nauseous… but Sam thinks it's more mental than anything else. Which kind of scares him if he thinks too hard about it.

"So," Dean says, startling Sam out of his reverie. "What're we gonna call our club?"

"Club?" Sam asks, wrinkling his brow, then remembers a snippet of conversation from last night. "Were you really serious about that? You'll quit smoking if I – you'll quit?"

"I said I'd try and cut back," Dean corrects. "And I will."

"So how many've you had today?" Sam asks, half-smiling.

Dean makes a sheepish face. "None?"

"Right."

"Three," Dean admits with a grimace. "But I've been up for like two hours already."

Sam snorts, but he guesses it's something of an improvement.

"So we're on?" Dean says,

"Yeah," Sam says, though neither of them have mentioned his end of the deal. Which he fully plans to uphold. More or less. He'll do what Dean's doing – cut back. Doesn't mean he has to stop altogether, doesn't mean he can't have a beer or two now and again, but he'll cut back, for sure.

It's just, he kind of wishes Dean hadn't mentioned it, because now he's thinking about it, and he doesn't really want to be thinking about it.

"Uh," Dean says, and Sam looks up.

"What?"

"I thought maybe today – maybe we could go to a museum."

Sam gapes. "Come again? A museum? Did you just suggest – I'm sorry, was that – culture?"

"Yeah," Dean says, ignoring Sam's widened eyes. "I did a little research before you woke up."

Sam's eyes get wider. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah," Dean says, reaches over for the laptop that's half-open on the corner of the table. "Check it out. It's open till five. I figure we could go around one thirty."

Sam tugs the laptop over, peers at the website Dean's pulled up, not a little skeptical. Then his eyes register the words on the screen, and he lets out a bark of laughter.

"The Cowgirl Hall of Fame? Seriously, Dean?"

"Hell yes," Dean says enthusiastically. "This shit looks awesome, Sam. It's got art, and photos, and a bucking bronco. Right up your alley."

Sam rolls his eyes, but he has to admit, the place does look kind of interesting. "Cool," he says after a moment. "Yeah, let's go."

Dean grins triumphantly and a big chunk of half-chewed bacon falls from his mouth and onto his lap.

Dean Winchester, ladies and gentlemen, cowgirl aficionado and sworn enemy of etiquette everywhere. Sam huffs his disgust, mutters a plaintive "Fuck you" when Dean grins again and offers him an up-close and personal view of his latest mouthful. His brother's fucking gross.

But it's nice to see him smile.

:::

After breakfast, Sam washes the dishes while Dean fidgets at the kitchen table, hands flexing over his knees, good leg tapping. He's got his jaw clamped down tight, and Sam tries to ignore the nervous energy coming off him in waves, but it's kind of difficult.

"Hey," Dean says, snaps his fingers, seems to like the gesture, because he snaps them again a few times.

"What?"

"You wanna do your hair after this?"

"Do my hair?" Sam repeats, imagining Dean with a bottle of hairspray and a curling iron.

Dean makes a scissoring gesture and, oh yeah, duh.

"Oh," Sam says, one soapy hand going automatically to pat at his admittedly shaggy head. He really does need at least a trim. But Dean's a little – twitchy at the moment, and Sam's not sure he wants those jittery hands to hold anything sharp near his head.

"Yeah," Sam says after a moment. "I mean… I don't… you seem a little…" he waggles his fingers, bugs out his eyes in his best depiction of cracked-out.

Dean gets it, grimaces and rubs a palm over the back of his head. "Yeah, well. I might need a cigarette first."

"Do you have a system to this whole cutting-back thing?" Sam asks, marginally annoyed. "'Cause I see no reason to hold up my end of the bargain if you don't at least try to hold up yours."

"I am trying," Dean says, but scowls a little. "Listen, you need a freakin' haircut, dude, and if I'm not gonna smoke a cigarette, then I gotta do something with my hands. I promise I won't cut off your ear."

Sam looks at him for a moment, sighs. "Fine."

Sam, per Dean's request, dunks his head in the sink to get his hair good and soaked, while Dean digs up a comb and a pair of scissors. They go out on the balcony, and Sam's gratified to see Dean swallow and turn away from the ledge, settle himself carefully on the chair with his back facing the view to the street.

Sam fits himself a little awkwardly between Dean's legs, puts a careful elbow on his brother's bad leg, extended out beside him like an armrest due to the locked brace.

The sun is warm on Sam's skin, and his eyes drift closed as he listens to the hum of the city and the snip-snip of the scissors, lets himself relax into the sensation of Dean's fingers carding through his hair, tugging out the tangles, occasionally brushing a few stray strands off the back of his neck.

They don't really talk, except for the occasional "Turn this way," or "Lean forward a little," and Sam obeys without opening his eyes, lets Dean gently push him around. He's a little disappointed when Dean stops cutting, brushes the hair off his shoulders and pronounces him finished.

"Thanks," Sam says, gives his head an experimental shake. It's a lot shorter – doesn't curl at his neck anymore, doesn't hang in his eyes, and it feels nice, lighter. How it looks remains to be seen. He turns, offers his hand, and Dean takes it, pulls himself into a stand and gropes for his crutches.

"I am good," Dean says, examining him with a critical eye. "Dude, screw hustling – I could just offer my services as a freelance hairstylist."

"Right," Sam snorts.

"I'm serious," Dean says, following him inside. "I made you look good – that's a miracle of fashion right there."

Sam has to admit, it is a good haircut, as far as haircuts go – though they all look more or less alike to him, he can tell good from bad, and this isn't bad.

"Thanks," he says, turning his head this way and that in the bathroom mirror.

"No problem," Dean says, leans back against the wall a little. "We should probably get going."

"Okay," Sam says, distracted, and his brother edges out of the bathroom as Sam stares at himself. His hair's thick, but it's always grown incredibly slowly, so five months without a haircut isn't quite a recipe for Tarzan-hair – but it really had been pretty damn long. He runs a hand through to the tips, thinks about all the times Jess used to do that – wonders when he'll cut off the last hair she touched. Another five months, maybe less. It never ceases to surprise Sam that she gets further away with every passing day, and he has to grip the edge of the sink against that familiar surge of wild disbelief, shocked all over again that he'll never have another chance to touch her, to talk to her.

He puffs out the air that's been trapped in his lungs, squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

He wants a drink.

Wants a drink pretty fucking badly. He's not sure what the rules are for this little game, but Dean's had a few cigarettes today, has admitted it – so does that mean Sam can have a few drinks? Or just one, just one beer, one beer and then he'll—

"Dude," Dean hollers. "Let's get a move on! Cowgirls a'waitin'!"

:::

They take the bus, because they really can't afford a cab, and because Dean puts up a big stinking fuss until Sam throws up his hands and gives in. It's just – Dean's done indulging his stupid fucking leg. He's done. It's his leg, not the other way around, goddammit, and he's gonna ride the fucking bus even if it means he'll get stared at a little. He's faced worse.

"Lower the thing," Dean says as soon as the doors swing open. The driver peers down at him, confused.

"Sorry?"

"The thing, the thing, lower the thing," Dean says impatiently, knows he could probably articulate himself a little better, but his cigarettes are burning a hole in his pocket and it's hard to concentrate on anything else.

Luckily the driver understands, lowers the thing with a hiss and Dean clambers on, steadfastly doesn't look at the people casting him curious glances. The bus is by no means full, but a pretty young woman jumps out of the handicapped seat up front and offers him an apologetic little smile as she settles herself a few seats back. And, fuck it, Dean takes her seat, because he needs to sit down, and this kind of shit ain't gonna fuckin' change, so he may as well suck it up and deal with it.

"Thanks," he says, gives the girl his best grin, and she returns it – not apologetic this time, but genuine, and he feels a little better.

Another man shuffles down obligingly so Sam can plop himself next to Dean, and Dean holds his crutches between his legs, keeps one eye on the street names, watching for their stop. He needs a cigarette. Oh, christ, does he need a cigarette. He's gonna have to smoke one when they get off the bus, or he's not gonna be able to appreciate the cowgirls.

Next to him, Sam shifts a little, rubs his palms across the thighs of his jeans like they're sweaty. Dean hears a little click as he swallows. Jesus, what a pair.

Dean's leg is stuck out into the aisle, and he does his best to keep it pulled to one side, but people still end up having to pick their way over it when they board the bus, and he grits his teeth, goes on a long, inward tirade about inaccessibility of public spaces.

He may be afraid of heights again, but he still can't forget how it felt to think, if just for one moment, that he could fly. To think that he could somehow find a way to leave the clumsiness of his body behind, or even take it with him to a place where it didn't matter how far his knee could bend, or whether or not he his hip could support his weight.

He lets himself wonder, just for a moment, what would have happened had Steven won. What would have happened if Dean had gone over that balcony. His stomach twists a little to think about it, but… there's something not altogether horrible about the idea. He's always thought he wants to go down swinging. Maybe he'd rather go down flying.

Shut up, Winchester. He huffs a laugh at himself, earns a small, inquisitive frown from Sam that he ignores. Lack of nicotine does crazy things to a man's head. Flying, schmying. He's never going up in a plane ever again. Unless there are cigarettes on board.

Cigarettes. Unnngh.

"You think Marcella noticed the hair's gone?" Sam asks out of nowhere.

"Dunno," Dean says, tries to relax his shoulders a little.

"You feel okay, right? I mean—"

"Peachy."

"Wonder if Dad's gonna call soon. It's been a few days."

"Yup."

"You think he'd—"

"Sam, I need to be watching the streets," Dean snaps. "Let's save the small talk, huh?"

"O-kay," Sam says, crosses his arms, doesn't say anything until Dean reaches up to push the Stop Requested button.

"We here?"

"No, I just like how powerful this makes me feel," Dean says, slams a palm on the button again.

Sam's jaw tightens, but he holds Dean's crutches as Dean pushes himself up. The bus driver starts lowering the thing before Dean can protest that he's fine when it comes to disembarking, and the few people waiting at the bus stop stare at him as he gets a grip on his crutches and gets himself onto the sidewalk. He kind of hopes the bus crashes and they all die a horrible flaming death.

Dean digs his cigarettes out of his jacket as soon as he's off the bus, doesn't look at Sam as he shakes one free, fingers a little unsteady as he flicks his zippo open, takes his first breath of smoke.

Oh. Oh god.

He closes his eyes, takes a long drag, can feel his body lose some of its tension. Realizes that the clench of his muscles has been doing nothing to help his leg, which aches in a way that threatens to get worse, soon. He's got some Vicodin in his jacket pocket. Pants pocket, too, actually. He's gonna have to break it out pretty soon.

He takes another drag, glances up at his brother, expecting Sam's patented look of stiff-jawed disapproval, but Sam just looks tired.

"Sorry," Dean feels the need to say, waves his cigarette a little. "I just – baby steps, right?"

"I dunno. I think you're doing pretty well."

Dean stares. "What?"

"This is your first cigarette in like, two and a half hours. That's pretty good, man."

Dean tries not to show his surprise. "Uh." Is he supposed to say thank-you? "Yeah."

Sam nods a little, puts his hands in his pockets, cranes his head around. "So where's this museum?"

"Down the block," Dean says, regrets snapping at Sam earlier. It'd be a little easier to stick with the nice if he weren't also trying to cut down the cigarettes. 'Cause, oh man. He's a hell of a lot nicer when he's not panicking for a smoke.

He's trying hard, though,he really is – he's been stuck in whiny, pansy-ass self-pity mode for too long now. That's not what Sam needs; Sam needs him to be okay. So – Dean's gonna be okay. Simple as that.

Simple.

:::

"These chicks were badass," Dean says for like, the thirtieth time as he reads a plaque. "This one's my favorite." He thumps a crutch for emphasis. "Poker Alice. Ugly lookin' thing, but." He whistles. "Badass."

Sam rolls his eyes. Dean's been making his slow way around the Hall of Fame for the last half-hour, picking a new favorite cowgirl every couple of photographs. Last one was "Big-nose Kate," whom he pronounced "Ugly, but." Whistle. "Badass."

He'd been disappointed at first, at the lack of general attractiveness of most of the featured cowgirls, but he got over it pretty quick once he'd started reading about them. Sam thinks it's pretty cool too, actually, but he's not half as excited as Dean. Even as a kid, Dean was fascinated by the West, and Sam's pretty sure Dean still pretends he's a cowboy sometimes when he draws a pistol.

They'd spent a long damn time looking at saddles, too, and whips, and spurs, which means that Sam had to endure way too many dirty jokes for his liking, dirty jokes that earned the disapproving glance of more than one visitor.

But he finds himself grinning as Dean lets out a whoop and calls, "Sam! Get your ass over here! I found a hottie! Oh, thank fuck."

"Belle Starr," Sam reads, peers at the picture. "Dean, this photo is from like, a hundred feet away. And it's black and white. You can't even see her."

"You can, too. Check out the tits. Seriously."

"Whatever, man."

Dean grins, goes back to his appreciation of the photo, and Sam watches him, notices how he adjusts his grip on his crutches, wincing a little. They've been walking around for almost two hours, with just a ten-minute break for Dean to smoke a cigarette, shamefaced, about an hour in.

"I think we've seen about everything," Sam says. "Let's get something to eat." So you can sit down. And I can— yeah.

"Okay," Dean agrees. "But – there's just one more thing."

"What?" Sam asks, immediately wary of the glint in Dean's eye.

"C'mon," Dean says as an answer, and starts moving. Sam follows; doesn't really have a choice.

"Oh," he says, when he sees where his brother's led him. "Oh, hell no. Dean, you can't—no offense, dude, but there's no way you can—"

"I know I can't," Dean says, impatient, matter-of-fact. "But you can."

Sam turns to look at the mechanical bronco in the center of the room, bucking wildly as a giggling middle-aged woman attempts to stay on, fails in a flurry of limbs and high-pitched squeals as her husband cackles on the sidelines.

"No," Sam says.

"Sam," Dean says, turns big green eyes on him. "Dude, if I could, I'd be all over that."

Sam bites his lip, casts another glance at the "bronco." He's gonna lose this fight. Dean's playing the pity card, and Sam… well, Sam would be lying if he said he didn't kind of want to ride the bronco.

"And the best part," Dean says, eyes shining, "the best part is, they videotape it, and then put you in a Wild West video that makes it look like you were riding a real bronco."

"Awesome," Sam deadpans.

Dean scowls. "Show a little respect for these brave women, huh? Least you can do is put yourself in their shoes for a couple minutes. They had to do this every day, Sam. Life was hard on the range."

"I'm not saying it wasn't."

"So quit being a pussy and get in line!"

It's a hell of a lot more difficult than it looks, that's for sure, but Sam at least does better than the woman before him, who sticks around to cheer him on as he grips the fake saddle horn and clenches his thighs together around the faux suede hide, lets out a couple involuntary yelps as the mechanical bronco spins and bucks and tries its mechanical best to throw him off.

"Sit up straighter!" Dean hollers. "Lean into it!"

"Relax your back!" someone else calls, an unfamiliar voice, but Sam's too busy trying to sit up straight and lean into it to see who the hell else is watching him.

"Hell yeah!" he hears Dean whoop. "Ride 'em, Sammy!"

It's hard to keep a straight face when you're riding what is essentially a metal barrel masquerading as a violent horse, and it's the laughter that gets Sam in the end, makes him weak and breathless, until finally he loses the fight and is ferociously dislodged, tossed onto the padding beneath the still-bucking bronco.

There's a smattering of applause as Sam lies still for a moment, lets the slight pain fade from his shoulder before he pushes himself up. There's a pretty good crowd, to his surprise, about ten people, including a handful of excited children and their nervous-looking parents. Don't try this at home, kids.

"That was awesome," the attendant says, grinning as she hands Sam a ticket. "You're a natural! Just go online tomorrow and enter the code on this ticket, and you can download your movie."

"Sweet!" Dean crows, slaps him on the back.

Sam can't help but grin. "That was pretty sweet."

"You weren't half bad," Dean says. "I coulda done better, but, hey. You held your own."

"Hell yes, I did," Sam says, but he feels his smile fade a little, because even though he knows it's a joke, Dean would have done better. Dean had always been good at that kind of stuff, had amazing balance, had a natural athleticism — had being the operative word. It's still hard, sometimes, trying to reconcile this Dean with the Dean he grew up with, the invincible big brother who could have Sam pinned and tapping out in four minutes flat. Now his brother can't get himself onto a goddamn bus without help.

"You hungry?" Dean asks, looking at Sam closely as they head towards the exit.

"Starving." Sam tries to fix his smile back in place.

"I saw a Burger King down the block," Dean says. "We're a little low on cash, so—"

"No!" Sam says, startles himself with his own vehemence, but he needs a place that serves alcohol. He just wants one beer. That's it.

"All right, no Burger King," Dean says, looks a little taken aback. "Pizza?"

"Yeah, pizza's good," Sam says, remembers seeing a pizza parlor with a big Pabst neon sign in the window.

They leave the museum, step out into the orange afternoon sun, and Dean digs his cigarettes out of his pocket as soon as they hit the front steps. Sam doesn't say anything, because it's about three thirty, and by his count, Dean's only had five cigarettes, which is pretty amazing, really, though Sam can tell he's having a hard time.

The pizza place is halfway down the block, and Sam goes in to get a booth while Dean stays outside to finish his cigarette. Sam orders a beer from the person who leads him to the table, watches through the window as Dean lights another smoke with a guilty little head-turn, like he's making sure Sam didn't somehow stick around to spy on him.

I can see you through the window, you idiot.

Sam's beer comes almost immediately, cold and bitter and completely perfect, and on just the first sip Sam relaxes a little, not even realizing how wound tight he'd been. It's weird, and probably not good, but Sam feels a lot more in-control with a drink in his hand, like everything's just a little bit easier, more manageable.

It makes Sam feel better, too, to watch his brother "secretly" smoke that second cigarette, makes him feel like less of a fuck-up, because at least Dean's a fuck-up too, and can't get pissed at him.

Sam's halfway through when Dean comes inside, lowers himself down into the booth with white lips, whether from pain or anger Sam's not sure.

"What's that?" Dean asks, nodding at the bottle clenched defiantly in Sam's hand.

"What's it look like?" Sam says, a stupid comeback for an even stupider question.

Dean looks like he's going to say something, but then he just sighs, absentmindedly tugs a Ziploc of Vicodin out of his jeans pocket, shakes a few pills out and swallows them with the water that's been brought to their table.

"I'm just gonna drink this one," Sam says, relenting, because Dean looks tired and thin and his fingers are already dancing inside his coat again, twitching in the pocket where Sam knows he keeps his cigarettes.

"Your call," Dean says, and Sam's suddenly resentful of his forced, disappointed tone, so much like Dad when he was pretending to give them a choice – or rather, an order, disguised as a choice.

"Yeah, it is," Sam says, and takes another sip of his beer.

Dean looks away, adam's apple bobbing in his throat. The waiter comes over and they get a large pepperoni pizza, and when it comes Dean spends five minutes methodically picking off all the pepperoni from his slice and eating them slowly one by one.

"Could you just eat like a normal person, please?" Sam asks, cringes inside, because his tone is the same as the one a mother would use to say Inside voices, please, or Ask with your mouth, not with your hands.

"A normal person," Dean repeats, peeling off another pepperoni. "Right. Godforbid we not be normal."

"Dean," Sam says, recognizing the beginning of a very old argument.

Dean takes a bite of pizza, swallows and puts it down, leans back in the booth, uses his hands to move his braced leg out in front of him with a little harsh exhale of breath.

"You all right?" Sam can't help but ask.

Dean says nothing, just rolls his head back on his shoulders and reaches for his water.

He's clearly in pain, Vicodin not kicked in just yet, and Sam feels thoroughly exhausted by the sight. Every fucking day, he has to watch Dean go through this, and it never changes, no variation except the caliber and frequency of how much it hurts. It should be dull, boring for Sam, but somehow it feels different every time. And he can never do a goddamn thing about it.

"So what're we going to do now?" he finds himself asking.

"What do you mean, what do we do?" Dean asks. "Steven's gone. The Finklesteins don't come back for another few days. So we swim in the pool, maybe go to a movie. Check out some dorky art museum, if you really want to."

"And after that?" Sam asks quietly. "What'll we do after that?"

"Same thing we do every night, Pinky," Dean says. "Try and take over the world!"

Sam laughs despite himself. He hasn't thought about that particular cartoon in a long time. "Right," he says. "Like you're The Brain."

"Hey," Dean says, mock-offended. "Just 'cause I didn't go to some fancy college."

Sam flips him off, then says, "But, seriously, man. What're we going to do?"

"Same old, same old, Sammy," Dean says. "Shoot some shit. Burn some shit. Wait around and see if Dad needs us."

"It just keeps getting worse," Sam says, almost to himself, and Dean looks puzzled, vaguely uncomfortable. "Your leg," Sam clarifies, forces himself not to look away as Dean flinches. "You can't – we can't do this forever, man. You're… it's not getting better."

"It's not gonna," Dean says, tone suddenly hard. "No matter what we're doing."

"I'm just saying," Sam says desperately. "I'm just saying—"

But he stops, because in all honesty, he isn't sure what he's saying. The demon that killed Jess is still out there. Everything is still out there. Everywhere. And even if Dean would agree to stop – which he never would – Sam can't turn his back a second time. Not with Jess's dying eyes still piercing him whenever he closes his own eyes at night. The smell of burning hair still fresh in his nose, like it was yesterday. Can't turn his back on that.

"I've got an acupuncture appointment tomorrow at two," Dean offers after a moment of silence. "Figured I could use some. My back's all kinds of fucked-up."

It's a concession of some sort, and Sam takes it as such, smiles a little. "Good, dude."

"Yeah." He clears his throat. "Uh, your appointment's at two fifteen."

Sam blinks. "What?"

"It helps," Dean says defensively. "I just thought… I thought it might help."

"My shoulder's fine, dude," Sam says, gives it a roll to illustrate his point. It barely hurts at all anymore.

"I wasn't thinking about your shoulder," Dean mumbles. "Just – it helps – it helps your back and shit. It's just – it's good for you."

"Dean, I really don't think—"

"You're kidding me, right?" Dean says. "You forced me into this in the first place, acted all smug when I said it worked – but you're too cool to try it for yourself?"

"It's not about cool."

"So, two fifteen it is."

"Yeah," Sam says, gives in. "Sure. Thanks."

"You'll like it," Dean says, picks up his pizza again, forgotten on his plate. "We'll do, like, a spa day. We can get pedicures afterwards."

Sam snorts.

"Or, even better—" Dean pauses dramatically. "We can clean the guns!"

"Be still my heart," Sam says dryly, but smiles a little when Dean gives him a tentative, half-grin.

He reaches for another piece of pizza, but inadvertently catches Dean's water glass mid-reach, and it topples over, water splashing onto Dean's plate and into lap.

"Fuck!" Sam says, flushing, fumbling for something to sop it up with. "God, I'm sorry, man, here, let me –"

"It's okay," Dean says. "Hey, hey, Sam, it's cool. Siddown. I got it."

Dean grabs a handful of napkins and swipes them across the table, then starts blotting his lap.

"Shit, here," Sam says, starts casting around for more napkins, starts to rise, but Dean's hand clamps around his wrist, cool and firm, tugging him back down.

"Sam," Dean says quietly. "It's okay. I got it."

Sam sinks back into his chair as Dean tosses the wet napkins on the table, grabs himself a new slice of pizza, one that isn't waterlogged, then tosses one onto Sam's plate with a condescending big-brother smirk.

Sam hasn't seen that particular smirk in a long time, and all of a sudden, for no reason he can think of, he feels something settle inside of him, something that had been beating its wings in his ribcage for months, and he feels his fists unclench, feels the muscles in his jaw relax.

"Gettin' clumsy," Dean says through a mouthful of pepperoni. "We gotta train more."

"Yeah," Sam says, huffs a laugh as Dean casts a mournful look at the mountain of cheese that's just slid off his pizza and onto his already-wet lap.

"It's fine," Dean says, does his best to encourage the errant cheese back onto the crust, plucking strings of mozzarella from off his jeans.

"You're disgusting," Sam informs his brother.

"Miss Manners, watch your fuckin' back," Dean says. "I know what you are, and I'm gonna hunt you down."

Sam shakes his head, finishes his beer in a long gulp and glances out the window, thinks how he really shouldn't have another one, but man, he'd really like to.

There's a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye, and he sees a brown bird alight itself on the sidewalk right outside the window, peck mindlessly at the cement. There's something in its beak, yarn of some kind, and Sam figures it must be making a nest.

The sun glints off the yarn, and Sam peers closer – realizes, on second glance, that it's not yarn, but rather something that looks a whole lot like human hair. Sam thinks suddenly of the trimmings they'd left out on the balcony to blow away in the breeze, and he wonders wildly if maybe this bird is holding his hair, if it will weave the strands of his hair into its nest in the eaves of some building, or maybe a tree in some park.

The bird hops once, quirks its head towards the window, and suddenly Sam feels as if it's looking directly at him with its tiny, knowing black eyes; feels as if, in that one moment, there is no distance between them; feels as if they understand one another perfectly. Then, with a rustle of shining feathers, it pushes away from the pavement and disappears into the hazy blue sky.

**The End.**


End file.
